Phase Two: Betrayal
by The Freelancer Collaboration
Summary: Book Two of the Freelancer Saga, taking place after the events of Phase One: Genesis, as Project Freelancer is forced to regroup after suffering a severe blow, and the Freelancers find that they are not the same people they once were. Meanwhile, a new force is rising, determined to bring down both Project Freelancer and the UNSC. Who will emerge victorious, and at what cost?
1. Prologue

**(A/N) Hey guys, do you know what this is?! This is the very first update for the second fic in our Freelancer saga trilogy, Phase Two: Betrayal, seeking to emulate the success of its predecessor, Phase One: Genesis, which, as of the moment that I am uploading this chapter, has a view count of 40,000! So, basically, we're going to have to work our asses off to make this fic an even bigger success. We've got a helluva task ahead of us, but we've also got a great story to tell, and some fantastic new writers working on this with us, so there's absolutely no ****reason why this won't be able to raise the bar, but more on that as we come to it. I can't even begin to express how excited I am that this is finally getting up and running, and I promise that our other fics will now resume a more constant update timetable, there's just been problems lately on that front due to my laptop being damaged, but all shall resume normal service shortly! This is strictly the prologue. Expect the next update to come tomorrow night! There's so much more to come!**

**Enjoy!**

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**Prologue**

**Colonel Eric Grant**

**Written by NicKenny**

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"_The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If you would take a man's life, you owe it to him to look into his eyes and hear his final words. And if you cannot bear to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die." _– George R. R. Martin, _A Game of Thrones_

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_Many years ago..._

The Colonel looked about himself with a certain satisfaction, as the guests began to flow through the lobby, into the rooms designated to receive them. Today was the culmination of months of planning, and he wouldn't see it go to waste. Today was the day that the UNSC would finally announce their victory over the Unified Revolutionary Front, having wiped all traces of it from the planet's associated with the Insurrectionist movement. More importantly, it would be he, Colonel Eric Grant, who would be receiving a commendation for defeating this Insurrection.

Hell, he might even make brigadier after this.

He paced behind the curtains of the main hall, impatient for the ceremony to begin, already anxious to get it over and done with, before his nerves kicked in and made it even more difficult to give his speech before the assembled UNSC officers, functionaries, media, and some of the wealthier citizens of Haven.

It had seemed somewhat fitting to hold the event on Haven, where the URF had been founded, all that time back. Colonel Grant had quickly made a name for himself, holding the capitol of New Delphi against the overwhelming forces of the Insurrection, until reinforcements had arrived in the shape of Project Freelancer, and whatever forces the UNSC had been able to spare.

After they had successful repelled the URF forces, Grant had pressed forward the initiative, allowing Project Freelancer to combat the Insurrectionists on other nearby planets, while he directed the mop-up of Insurrectionist forces on Haven. After that he had moved onto Aurora, then to Arcite and finally took part in the military blockade of Byzantium, and the final assault on the URF's compound, although, of course, those Freelancer bastards had claimed most of the glory for themselves.

And look at where they were now – shut down, their Director attending numerous court hearings for potential negligence and unnecessary endangerment of human life. Colonel Grant couldn't help but smile at that, and reflect at how the times had changed. The details of the matter had not been passed onto him, too classified for his rank, at the moment, at least, but Grant couldn't help but entertain the thought that it was no doubt the Director's own pride and arrogance that caused whatever problem had occurred.

Behind the curtains, he could hear the announcer's muffled voice ring out, and he straightened up, adjusting the embroidery on his dress uniform, standing proudly to attention as the curtains began to draw back, and the applause of the crowd sounded clearly in his ears as soon as the announcer proclaimed "Colonel Eric Grant, the hero of Haven!"

He stepped out proudly into the light, walking up next to the announcer's podium, acknowledging the crowd only with a stiff nod, and nothing more, playing the part of war hero with every fibre of his being. Camera's flashed and followed his every movement, with representatives from apparently every aspect of the media in Haven and its neighbours present, all lapping up in the ceremony of the occasion. Here and there stood UNSC soldiers, fully armed and on guard, just in case any remnant of the Insurrection that Grant had been responsible for the destruction of chose to make a sudden appearance, although the UNSC had little fear on that point.

Still, some small part of him was relieved to know that over eighty UNSC troops were stationed around the facility, patrolling the corridors and checking the identities of guests. He couldn't afford for anything to go wrong tonight, and fortunately, it seemed as though everything was progressing according to plan.

The announcer was now reading off his list of achievements during his time in the UNSC, both in action against the Covenant and the Insurrection, although his only real achievements of note were the destruction of the URF, and that one time he, as a captain, led a squad of ODSTs against a Covenant assault force, rescuing a dozen people before withdrawing and watching as the Covenant glassed the planet.

He had received a commendation for his actions that day, too.

Brigadier Gerald Hopkins was present to deliver his commendation, and Colonel Grant smiled warmly as the brigadier took the stage, even though, privately, he hated the man's guts, along with his grovelling sycophantic tendencies. Always smart to remain on good terms with your superiors, though, he reminded himself, and shook the man's hand firmly, never allowing his smile to slip.

Some corner of his brain, the part that had made him such a good soldier, suddenly flared up, and a sense of growing unease crept through him. If he had time to analyse this feeling, he might have noticed that his brain had been counting off the seconds for one of the patrols to pass through the back of the room, which they didn't, but as it was he simply put it down to nerves and gave himself a mental shake in an effort to dispel them.

The brigadier took the microphone from the announcer, smiling warmly to the crowd and the cameras that were trained on him, his eyes sparkling as the flashes of dozens upon dozens of cameras flared on and off with alarming rapidity.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, flashing an oily grin to the cameras. "We are gathered here today to celebrate the achievements of one of the heroes of our recent campaign against the Insurrectionist movement known as the Unified Revolutionary Front, Colonel Eric Grant. There can be little doubt that without his heroic sacrifices and exemplary leadership skills both in the field and out of it, the war would still continue to this day."

He paused, and Colonel Grant stirred uneasily, pleased at the praise that was being lavished upon him, but at the same time the sense of growing unease continued to grow larger and larger. While he continued to ignore his own instincts, three more patrols had gone missing, unbeknownst to the security guarding the area, as they continued to check in periodically using their comm links.

Of course, no one realised that something was wrong. People never did, not until things had _gone _wrong. Even those with minor misgivings, not just the Colonel, but the other soldiers waiting for a patrol to pass by, those watching the surveillance cameras that, on some level, picked up on the fact that they were watching the same clip of soldiers passing through the various corridors at a ten-minute loop, but all of them shrugged off their minor doubts, providing rational explanations, or insisting that they were either paranoid or "seeing things".

The entire purpose of having guards was for them to see things.

The brigadier smiled and began speaking once more. "We can consider this to be a message to the rest of the Insurrectionist movements within the galaxy: You can try to fight us, but we will defeat you. You can try to destroy our way of life, but you will fail. You can try to assassinate our leaders, but new heroes will spring up to oppose you, and their names will live forever, while yours will be forgotten."

A polite bout of applause rang out throughout the room at this moment, and the cameras began to flare once more, but this was quickly overshadowed by the series of brief, dramatic bursts of gunfire that suddenly rang out across the building, apparently from all angles, accompanied by the lights in the room suddenly flickering off and back on again, and several members of the crowd screamed, while others, mainly the military representatives, stood up and quickly scanned the room for possible exits, only now noticing that the guards on the doors had been replaced.

Where only a few minutes ago two to four men and women clad in UNSC uniforms had stood guard, now the same number of armed soldiers wearing a mixed range of fatigues, varying from normal camouflage to arctic, desert, forest and night variations, but one thing remained in common: a deep red sun emblazoned over the letters GACS, where the usual UNSC symbol and letters would normally be. There was no sign of the original guards.

A slow handclap began to fill the sudden silence that had fallen over the assembled crowd, and a figure began to make his way down from the main entrance, clad in coral and sage coloured armour, bringing a word of recognition into the colonel's mind.

_Freelancer._

"What is the meaning of this?" he asked, enraged, ignoring the sudden chill that was settling along the base of his spine. "Who are you and what are you doing here?"

The figure merely let out a brief peal of laughter, shaking its head slowly, its face hidden behind his visor. A male voice replied, in a tone of the utmost scorn: "Who I am is of no importance. It is what I represent that you should take note of. As for what I'm doing here…I'm here to deliver justice. I'm here to right a wrong."

The colonel took a step forward, pausing only when the man raised his arm, Magnum in hand, causing him to stop in his tracks. "You have attacked UNSC soldiers and are currently holding several high ranking hostage. Do you have any idea what you've done, and what this means for you?!"

The figure nodded slowly, and turned to the crowd, the cameras now trained on him by the ever-story-searching media. "You may call me Arkansas!" the man in armour announced to the crowd, his gun still trained on the colonel, unwavering. "I am here tonight to dispense justice for crimes committed against the people of Haven, by this man here, Colonel Eric Grant."

Arkansas turned back to the main entrance, and four more figures entered, two of which Colonel Grant was more than familiar with. The first, the brooding mass of muscle that was Agent Pennsylvania, cemented into the colonel's mind that somehow Project Freelancer was responsible for this. The Freelancer had changed his armour somewhat, repainting it steel grey and red instead of the dark blue that Grant remembered, but there was still no mistaking him.

Even in this century, few men were as tall as he was and had the same aura of intensity and anger that he did.

The other confused him somewhat, as he wouldn't have thought Director Church would have felt it necessary to work with Insurrectionists to pull of this mission, but there was no mistaking the maniacal swagger of former-UNSC Lieutenant Ian Harper, a man who had once served under Grant all those years ago, and whom he had spent the better part of the last decade hunting down, to no avail. These two men marched down the entrance, and their appearance increased his sense of foreboding. their presence casting a spell of silence over the assembled crowd/

The other two barely registered in his mind next to their predecessors. The first, a young woman in her early twenties, held a small, portable data-pad in one hand and a Magnum in the other, while the man next to her, who forced Grant to retract his statement about few men being as tall as Pennsylvania, as he too, was a giant, held a camera, training the lens on the colonel, just as the various televisions and holo-decks around the room suddenly flared into life.

Grant found himself staring at a slightly younger image of himself, weary-looking, sweaty and red-faced. Already, he was aware of what they were showing, and if Arkansas hadn't turned to look at him, warning him not to try anything, he probably would have gone for the Freelancer. A second later, the recorder of the video turned around, away from the younger Grant, focusing the lens on the horde of protestors in the streets of New Delphi, the streets on lockdown by the UNSC, forcing the protestors away from wealthier or government affiliated areas.

Insults were hurled towards the soldiers, soon followed by rocks and rotting vegetables, and the protestors sought to vent their frustration on the only body of the government within reach, the UNSC. A loud curse echoed out from behind the cameraman, and he swung around, to see the younger Grant's face growing even redder as he wiped the rotting tomato from his face, then the recording turned down to the floor and those watching got the sense that Grant and his guards, along with the cameraman, were retreating to a safe distance from the crowd.

This was confirmed a minute later, when the camera was finally raised once more, as Grant ascended into a Warthog, talking into the radio before looking up at the cameraman and ordering the nearby soldiers to remove him. The room had gone beyond silent now, so those watching were able to pick up the barely audible "open fire, issued from the younger Grant's lips, but the sounds of the gunfire and screaming that followed echoed through the room with a harsh finality.

The video cut out, and Ark nodded to the female soldier with the data-pad, and the image on the screens now flicked to what the giant with the camera was recording, just as he turned to Arkansas. In a grave voice, the Freelancer began to speak once more: "That, ladies and gentlemen, was a video recorded by a war-journalist by the name of Edgar Hobbs seven years ago, shortly before the birth of the Unified Revolutionary Front. That same journalist went missing three days later, and later washed up on the banks of the Latyara river, with three bullet holes through his chest. This was blamed on the protestors."

He turned back to Colonel Grant, and neither his posture nor his voice expressed a trace of pity. "For your actions on that day, Colonel, I am given little choice but to sentence you to death. Do you have anything to say in your defence?"

The colonel opened his mouth, which suddenly felt unnaturally dry, and all that he was able to produce was a faint moaning sound, more animal than human.

"Then so be it," Ark replied, and a gunshot rang out, sending the colonel sprawling to the floor, blood seeping from the chest wound into his dress robes.

The camera focused on the downed colonel, before turning back to Arkansas once more, then flicked over to Pennsylvania, Harper and the various soldiers on guard, before finally setting on the blazing sun design on the soldier's uniforms, as Ark's sonorous voice rang out throughout the room.

"This feed is being broadcasted throughout this planetary system, to every man, woman and child that we could reach. We are the Galactic Alliance of the Crimson Sun, an organisation pledged towards bringing war-criminals to justice and we have come here today to impart an important lesson to you all."

He turned and glanced at the now-unmoving body of Colonel Grant, and the camera zoomed in on the corpse's face, flecks of blood on the colonel's lips, the light of the room reflecting from his cold dead eyes.

"Even heroes die."


	2. Chapter 1: Artificial Ineptitude

**(A/N) Hey guys, here comes the second update of Phase Two: Betrayal, featuring a brand new character, written by the sensational Baldore, Jarvis Voisine! I hope you get some enjoyment out of this chapter, because you'll be seeing more of him in the coming months! I'm gonna keep it short and sweet, because I'm fully aware that this is going up a few hours late, and that we've got another update coming in about thirteen hours before we resume our normal schedule, so I'm going to leave you be!**

*******Disclaimer* _Any and all swearing present within this chapter will have been due to the editing process, and not the original words of Baldore. _**

**Enjoy!**

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**Chapter One – Artificial Ineptitude **

**Jarvis Voisine – Private First Class, Engineer**

**Written by Baldore**

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_"Engineers like to solve problems. If there are no problems handily available, they will create their own problems." _― Scott Adams

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Jarvis whistled as the Pelican began its descent towards the UNSC shipyard. Or rather, at one particular ship in the shipyard, which he had to concede was one hell of an impressive ship, to say the least.

The frigate sat in a state of disuse, with workers looking like ants as they crawled around the ship's hull, swarming around it as they engaged in the laborious work of maintaining a five hundred and thirty-five metre long spaceship. A large MAC cannon sat cozily on the top of the front of the ship, and Jarvis swallowed slightly as he imagined the sight of it firing, tearing through anything in its path with lethal efficiency. The ship's name, the _Mother of Invention_, was stencilled neatly on its side.

_A fitting name,_ Jarvis thought, grinning, already looking forward to working on the beautiful ship. _One of the best names I've heard, in fact. Well…after _Two for Flinching, Pony Express _and _Do You Feel Lucky?, _but nothing was ever going to top those._

The Pelican slowed down its descent and the pilot's voice rang out over the radio, **"Welcome to the UNSC's ship graveyard! Or, as we pilot's like to call it, Bone Valley! If you look to the left, you'll see the **_**Mother of Invention**_**! And if you look to the right, you'll see empty space and scrap metal. Isn't it just thrilling?"**

The pilot continued to crack jokes, and Jarvis laughed at one or two, genuinely amused by his antics, but his fellow mechanics just grumbled as the pilot conducted a rather embarrassing and uninformative tour before finally setting down on a landing pad with a loud _clang_. **"Aaaand thank you for flying with Project Freelancer airlines, because God knows I've had little enough work recently. If you guys have got any friends, recommend Pilot 343-R to them! Seriously, I need the work. Now watch your step, don't do drugs and stop by my non-existent giftshop before you leave!"**

Jarvis chuckled and gave a jaunty salute to the pilot as he exited the Plican via the boarding ramp. He was immediately greeted by a far less pleasant and amiable marine, and sighed.

"You there! In the gold armour!" the marine shouted accusingly, and Jarvis looked around for a moment in mock surprise, as though the man could have been referring to someone else.

Realising that the jig was up, Jarvis sighed and stepped forward, away from the other two new arrivals. He knew that the marine, probably a drill sergeant by the look of arrogant stupidity on his face, was calling him aside because of his non-regulation armour colour. Instead of the normal white of Project Freelancer personnel, he had painted his armour gold, deciding that conformity was boring and unoriginal. To him, it was awesome. To superiors, it was insubordinate.

"Me, sir?" Jarvis asked in mock-confusion.

"Of course you!" The engineer's sarcasm was obviously lost on the drill-sergeant. "Do you see anyone else in gold? What's your name and rank?!"

Jarvis bit back another sarcastic remark, with some difficulty, instead pulling off a semi-respectable salute. "Private First Class, Jarvis Voisine, reporting for duty, sir!"

Sergeant Drill-Sergeant, as Jarvis had dubbed him by this point, consulted his list. "Okay, Private Voyseen," Jarvis flinched as the marine butchered his surname. "You and those other two are to report to Deck 16 A, sub deck 3, for repairs on multiple computers, vehicles and structural damage. And when you come in tomorrow, have your armour sorted out, or I'll be forced to report it."

The marine then walked off without any further instruction, muttering under his breath about the idiots he has to deal with, and cursing standard UNSC incompetence.

Jarvis rolled his eyes and pulled off his helmet, revealing a bush of messy black hair and his mismatched eyes, one blue and one green. Holding his helmet next to his waist, he turned to his two companions. "So, who are you two?"

The first one, who was slightly taller, extended his hand, not removing his helmet. When he spoke, his voice was extremely deep, and Jarvis decided that he already liked him. "I'm Private Jones. Good to be working with you."

Jarvis shook his hand as the shorter one piped up, with a female voice. "I'm Private Rook. Nice to meet you."

Jarvis shook her hand too and smiled, always happy to get to know his co-workers. "Now that introductions are done, does anyone know how to get to Deck whatever that dude said?"

Several hours later, and who knows how many wrong turns, the trio arrived at Deck 16 A, sub deck 3, all limbs intact. Just very, very late. This, of course, got them chewed out by their supervisor in charge of repairs in that section, who also subsequently took an immediate dislike to Jarvis. The gold paint might have been responsible for this. He was almost regretting the modification.

Almost.

After a fifteen minute lecture, Jarvis finally was able to do what he loved. Being a mechanic. Once he started, he instantly calmed down, with most of his stress and frustration immediately starting to dissipate. Placing his helmet back on his head, he knuckled down and started to get to work on the broken down Warthog he was assigned. Why were they called Warthogs anyway? To him, they always looked more like…never mind. The UNSC could call them whatever they liked. That had no impact on his work.

After a quick two hour repair, earning a surprised look from the deck officer, Jarvis was assigned to work with Private Rook, who was having trouble getting a Scorpion back online. Jarvis shook his head as he surveyed the damage on the tank. Just what the hell had these guys been up to?

"So, what's the problem here?" Jarvis said leaning over the other private, eager to help.

Rook swore in surprise before recovering...only to swear again. When she finally calmed down, the other mechanic explained. "I don't know what the damn problem is! If I did, The. Cursed. Thing. Would. Be. Fixed!" She slammed her wrench down on the tank on every word for emphasize.

Jarvis raised one eyebrow at her frustration. "Let me take a look," he said, already combing the tank for the source of the problem. He studied the circuitry for a few moments, before nodding in satisfaction and turning back to his colleague, a smile on his face. "Ah hah! The motor's circuitry in the third piston on the left has plasma damage and needs replaced, while the cannon's simply jammed."

Rook gaped at him "How?" she asked weakly, as she bent over to look at the circuitry herself.

Jarvis grinned and shrugged. "This isn't just a job for me, it's pretty much the one thing I'm good at. I know my mechanics...and jokes. After that all I have left is my charming personality. You wanna start with that engine and I'll start on the cannon?"

She nodded, grabbing a spare piston and began the tedious chore of replacing the old one. Jarvis soon discovered that the Scorpion's bolt had detonated _inside _of the canon and was being a pain in the butt to remove. As a result, he decided to make some small talk to pass the time. "So, Rook, do you know what happened to this beauty of a ship, or where it's from for that matter?"

A shake of her head. "Nah, I just get the standard 'need-to-know' bull. Maybe it was something to do with those SPARTANS? Details are pretty classified. Could be ONI?"

Jarvis shook his head in response, jimmying his wrench in the cannon, trying to loosen the shell. "Uh uh. I've seen ONI ships before. There's classified, and then there's classified, you know? This is close, but not quite as restricted. Maybe weapons testing? I saw some pretty advanced stuff here, as we were walking through...ah hah! Gotcha!"

Suddenly the shell finally loosened and rocketed out, nearly taking the two mechanic's heads off their comfy perches on their necks.

Unfortunately, it didn't miss the deck officer, who nearly popped a gasket. "Voyseen! Get your sorry butt over here, double time!"

Jarvis made sure Rook could handle the rest of the repairs herself and jogged over, saluting. "Reporting for duty, sir!"

The soldier was still glowering as he spoke. "I have another shipment of some fresh supplies just dropped off via Pelican. I need you to get over there and bring 'em back."

"But sir," Jarvis began, perplexed. He was, even being humble, the best mechanic currently on the _Mother of Invention, _in his opinion, and the worst possible choice to be an errand boy. Even if he had managed to accidentally hit the foreman with a Scorpion shell.

"Did I ask your opinion, Private?!" Jarvis' superior spat, frowning at this example of insubordination. "Now get to it!"

"Obviously I shouldn't have doubted your glorious wisdom, oh mighty one!" Jarvis muttered scathingly as he walked out, making sure he was out of earshot, throwing his tool box on the ground angrily, making it slide across the floor before coming to a screeching halt by a wall. "Next time, how 'bout you do something besides ordering people around, you insolent oaf! Accidents happen!"

As the peeved private stormed out, he absentmindedly noted that he didn't have the slightest idea where he was going.

Sure enough, an hour later and he was hopelessly lost, wandering the empty corridors of the grounded frigate. It reminded him of one of the ghost ships in a movie, as he was away from the hustle and bustle of his fellow engineers and left with desolate, empty halls instead. To tell the truth, it was beginning to creep him out.

As he walked by another doorway, he peeked in curiously, accepting that he was probably going to die in here, with a search party discovering his corpse attempting to chew on the metal walls for sustenance. The room, like the endless corridors, was devoid of human life but was still populated with desks. One appeared to be scrawled with graffiti and upon closer inspection revealed a conversation conducted by the former inhabitants of the ship.

"York wuz here", scrawled in thick black marker (next to a caricature of a stick figure with a comically oversized moustache), swiftly followed by "Real mature, old chap. – W".

'Who the heck names their kid York?' Jarvis mused, before shrugging and moving on, pushing the odd choices of random people aside.

Seeing nothing else of interest, Jarvis left the room to collect dust once again. But now he was even more confused. What had happened on the _Mother of Invention_?

Before the mechanic had even turned for his next hallway to hopefully find some recognizable landmark, he heard two voices and stopped in his tracks, attempting to locate the source. One was almost robotic and feminine while the other sounded like any other random person you'd meet on the street. Or at least, like any person _he'd _meet on the street – irritated and exasperated.

"-not coming back, F.I.L.L.S.," the masculine voice stated tiredly, as though they had gone through this argument a dozen times before. "We both know it."

"Negative, Alpha." The feminine voice, maybe F.I.L.L.S.(?), responded. "The Director has not completed his primary objective yet. He would not give up the primary objective."

Jarvis felt rude barging in on their conversation, but he had no idea where he was, and could only hope that these people knew the way out. If not, no harm, no foul, right? Having made up his mind, the gold armoured mechanic opened the door, and froze.

The scene that greeted him was a decidedly odd one. A glowing white hologram stood conversing with a tech panel labelled 'F.I.L.L.S.' and they were arguing.

"Um, excuse me," Jarvis started, not entirely sure what to say, but so hopelessly lost that he really had no other option. "I hate to interrupt but-"

"And _what_ are you doing here?" The hologram, Alpha, asked with a snort, obviously not pleased with an interruption. "Are you one of those damn mechanics?"

"No, I'm just carrying around tools for fixing stuff for the heck of it," came the sarcastic response. "Yeah, of course I'm a mechanic!"

"Then why are you snooping and not repairing the ship then?" Alpha asked, and Jarvis felt that he had to concede that point to him.

"I'm not snooping, I'm lost." Jarvis replied, finding the little white hologram incredibly irritating. Sure, his own sarcasm had been uncalled for, but no need to start throwing accusations around. "I got lost because this place is like a huge maze, and there are no signs _anywhere_! If you tell me where the nearest exit is, I'll be gone faster than you can blink. Well…if you can blink…"

This time the console, F.I.L.S.S., piped up. Quite a bit more politely then her companion too. "Take the outside hallway, B, and then take the first stairwell down to Deck 1 A and you'll be right next to the supplies that I assume you've been sent to pick up, Private Voisine."

"Thank you, I'll get out of your guy's way now," Jarvis said, relieved to finally know where he was going, and pleased that _someone _had managed to pronounce his name correctly, even if it was only a computer. Smiling, once again in a good mood, he exited the room.

As he left, he faintly heard the two entities resume their argument. But that wasn't really Jarvis' business, his was just to get those supplies and get back to repairing stuff again. There was also a very real chance that he would forget those directions if he didn't move quickly anyway, and it wasn't like he could ask _again_.

Luckily, F.I.L.S.S.'s directions were correct and the blue and green eyed technician found the supplies and made his way back to his group without a hitch. Unluckily, the foreman was still sore with Jarvis from the whole Scorpion incident and chewed him out for several minutes before releasing him. All in all, not the _best _first day.

"Oi, Jarvis! Over here!" Rook yelled over the general noise and pandemonium of the workplace. She was working with Jones on some basic structure repairs, so Jarvis went to help, smiling warmly at his two workmates.

"Dude, where'd you go? You gone for almost three hours!" Jones inquired in a low voice, trying to avoid ticking off the foreman again.

The black haired mechanic opened his mouth to explain but wasn't quite sure how to go about this task, fully aware that it would sound ridiculous. So, instead, he just provided a simple "I got hopelessly lost", accompanied by a bashful shrug. Technically, this was true. The other two privates shrugged in response, accepting his excuse and the trio went back to work on repairing the _Mother of Invention_, with the odd events of the day slowly slipping to the back of Jarvis' mind as he became completely absorbed in his work.

After all, what business was it of his if the computers on board this ship decided to hold long debates with one another? They lived here, he didn't. Presumably computers got bored too, although this wasn't something that his education had dwelt on.

It wasn't like they were planning to build a massive robot army and kill all the personnel on-board the ship, right?


	3. Chapter 2: Exit Strategy

**(A/N) So guys, looks like the last two chapters have gone down a treat, and now it's time for the third, which is possibly the best of the lot! From the perspective of Agent New York, written, as in the latter part of Phase One: Genesis, by the incredible Warg, who makes her triumphant return, here is a little bit more exposition for you. And hell, it's gonna be a bit of a tear-jerker once more, but I guess you guys are getting used to that, huh?**

**Just going to take this point to reply to some of our reviewers, and obviously thanking everyone who took the time to do so for their reviews:**

**Residential DeadMan - "Excellent start... Looks like it may be a hell of a sequel"**

** Thanks! We hope so too. Obviously, it's going to be tough to top Phase One, especially given that we really got into our stride towards the end, but I think we've got some great new writers this time round, and some great new characters, who'll hopefully allow us to take things to the next level.**

**Dusty Bones - "Ack, I went away for a little while and I come back to the most depressing end to the first part of a series ever! And not to mention the first two (amazing) parts of phase two! I can't tell if this the best thing ever or if you're trying to kill all of your readers.. Regardless, this is awesome as usual and I am so so looking forward to what you guys have in store for this next part!"**

**Same reply that I gave to Residential DeadMan applies here, but it's great to know that you're enjoying our fics! It's what we set out to do, after all! As to whether or not this is the best thing ever or if we're trying to kill our readers...can't we aim for both? And I can't wait for what we have in store either! It's going to be BIG!**

**Enjoy!**

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**Chapter Two - Exit Strategy**

**Agent New York**

**Written by WargishBoromirFan**

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_"True friends stab you in the front." - _Oscar Wilde

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**_Excerpts from UNSC Interrogation Log 108FB - Clearance Required_**

_Subject F-01 was on location during the events that led to the escape of I. Harper, R. Cass and E. [clearance required] and deaths of H. Steele and K. Britton. Subject F-01 was wounded during the encounter, but survived, unlike his fellow agents. Internals wish to confirm just what enabled Subject F-01 to survive, whether it be luck or some trace of sympathy from his former fellow agents that might be returned…_

They'd all gone through long hours in little holding cells with only the lack of obvious bars and the occasional military motivational poster to differentiate the place from a prison. Alaska had complained bitterly about the décor, but York knew it was just a matter of toughing it out and answering all the questions correctly. The UNSC wanted to catch the bad guys, too, but until they could get their hands on Ark, Penn, and Harper, they had to settle for watching the rest of the agents under a fish-eye.

_...And in conclusion, Subject F-01 will not be a threat to UNSC interests; the angels in the architecture keep watch on him and all of us._

It was meant to be therapeutic, Butch insisted, grief counselling. It could be the last shreds of hope talking through the dreary funk that had settled upon those normally peppy shoulders, but heaven knew he needed it. They all did. Still, Alaska seemed to take pride in breaking his spook of a shrink. They'd gotten a new one for California, even if the first guy had been meant to interview all twelve remaining agents of the suspended project.

_Subject F-02 is very belligerent; use extreme caution during interview. His closeness to H. Steele and past history with I. Harper indicate that he is unlikely to join the Crimson Sun cause, but some measure of restraint must be demonstrated before there is any consideration for a return to active duty._

With the Director recovering from his gunshot wound in a similar non-prison, high command had put Project Freelancer on hold, questioning whether it made that much sense in the first place, let alone continuing it now that Ark and Penn had flipped and killed two of their fellow agents and who knew how many other well-meaning UNSC grunts and sim troopers. Massa - Kim; it was still so odd to think of any of the team members by their real names, but Massachusetts and Michigan at least deserved to be remembered for everything they were - could at least rest easier knowing that she had been right about the poison growing in the project, even if she had died to show its results. Still, York couldn't regret his own involvement, and he wasn't sure if Cal could, either.

_Like the previous subject, Subject F-03 has personal reasons to remain loyal to those on the suspended project and rebuff any courtship attempts from the new Insurrectionist front. She is less likely to blindly lash out at those around her, but has a genetic predisposition for holding a very long grudge…_

There was a selfish part of York that could only thank his lucky stars that it hadn't been Carolina that had stumbled upon Ark that day. Maybe Arkansas would have listened to her, maybe she could have taken down him and Penn without getting hurt herself, but York had seen how California had reacted. He knew he would have been just as bad, if the unimaginable had occurred. It hurt like hell only as a friend, but missing out on meeting them? York didn't think he'd be able to handle that scenario, either. But, as Butch had once said, this was the here and now, and now and here they'd have to deal with, not fearful what-ifs lingering in the backs of their heads.

_Subject F-04 offered a hug during our discussion and made sure the tissue box was handy, making ample use of it himself. It is doubtful that he would offer any threat to UNSC interests. Table concept of diplomacy for later discussion; Subject F-04 seems most likely candidate to infiltrate the Crimson Sun and produce results, given more emotional resilience._

Here and now had taken them away from the debriefing offices and to a civvie apartment complex in Austin full of ex-military while their superiors at high command decided what to do with the lot of them. They had no assigned duties while the project was up in the air, and encouraged (at least by York) to think of it as a long-overdue vacation. Alaska, Virginia, Wyoming, Maine, and Sota proceeded to treat it like an actual leave of absence and stole out of the complex, one by one, without any word to York at least as to where they were headed. They could hardly be considered AWOL when UNSC acted like it would rather sweep the lot of them under the rug, anyway, and York didn't have to walk in on Virginia's call to her sister to suspect where at least one of their wayward Freelancers were headed.

_Subject F-05 is potentially problematic. As a roommate and close associate of E. [clearance required], his sympathies might be swayed toward the traitorous agents. Nonetheless, Subject F-05 was quick to reassure he "get[s] paid to experiment with top of the line heavy-duty military-grade vehicles, weapons, and explosives and have gorgeous ladies take [him] down in CQC practice and then the gang and [he] get full run of the ship, from mess hall to reactor core," therefore, he "love[s] this job!" While appearing to show a debt to Dr. L. Church, it is uncertain whether Subject F-05 would be quite so loyal to a new director, should the project continue without its current head._

Some of the others talked about taking off as well, but they'd never really done it. Carolina had nowhere else to go, no family outside the military to stay with. South had hung up when North attempted to call their parents and make her talk to them. Florida had gotten a letter out to his sister, but that one lived on Mars, and the military stipend paid better for whiskey than for a fast ship to Tharsis to the arms of those who were never truly expecting one to come home.

Georgia had fielded several calls from locations in Kentucky, Ohio, his namesake state, and even had his little brother threaten to drive down from school in Colorado, but he'd stayed, too, convincing the younger sibling that schooling was too expensive to skip and they'd all visit the farm before too much longer and he was_fine_ - though that "too much longer" dragged out in days and weeks and months spent puttering around the complex, doing maintenance to cover for what rent the UNSC didn't subsidize, just to keep his hands and mind busy. York had caught up with his uncle, but wasn't brave enough to try to contact his mother. Cal didn't even try to phone home, not that York blamed him.

_Subject F-06 is uncooperative and unresponsive. At least when asked directly if he would ever turn on his comrades, Subject F-06 answered "no." That was his total verbal contribution to the interview. We are disinclined to push him further._

At first, York had figured Cal would take off with Sota, wherever the taller of the two roommates was headed off to. Neither of them had mentioned any living family members - Sota had had a little sister, but the way he talked about her made York feel that that was all past tense. Sure, York tended to talk about his own mother in the same way - her life had been lived mostly in the past tense for the better part of the last twenty years - but not everyone carried such a weight, fortunately enough.

At this stage, York figured that both Cal and Sota needed that familiar face in the middle of the chaos, something to remind them that their pasts weren't all bad, but Minnesota would rather do the abandoning than be abandoned again and Cal ended up spending a lot of time in York's room since Sota and Wyoming wandered off. As roommates went, Cal wasn't too bad.

_Subject F-07's attempts to duck out of debriefings continue; when unable to escape physically from his quarters, he turns to ignoring the questions and getting hostile with Internals personnel. While more passive-aggressive than Subject F-02, his aggression is still a factor to be wary of, especially in combination with Subject F-02._

They had their awkward moments, certainly, - Cal's presence made visits with Carolina at least five kinds of uncomfortable - but overall, York didn't have a problem with being there for him. It wouldn't be the first time he'd gotten an unexpected roommate, and it wasn't the first time he'd gotten a better feel for his team members out of it. Wyoming had showed up at the door to York's private room the first night of their recruitment into the project, duffel bag over his shoulder, and said but one knock-knock joke by way of explanation: "Penned up with that monster is no way to live, so I'm moving in with you."

_Subject F-08 has proven surprisingly cooperative - which has been a breath of free air after the last few subjects, to succumb to editorializing. Though this mild nature might suggest a susceptibility to Insurrectionist indoctrination, Subject F-08's interactions with other former agents of the project - particularly Subject F-09 - suggest that he is not so easily turned._

On nights when Cal screamed and kicked in his sleep, York laid awake in the far bed, wondering if Wyoming had stayed with Penn, would Penn have remained with the Project, too, knowing that the rest of the Freelancers wouldn't give up on him just because he had the capacity to be brutal, or would Wyoming have taken off long before they moved into the apartment complex, giving York three former comrades turned enemy? Could their AWOL members be trusted now? The optimist in him rebelled against this train of thought; of course they were; they were friends; the UNSC was surely keeping an eye on them as well, even if rather loosely, but York had assumed the same of Arkansas and Pennsylvania, as well.

_Subject F-09 is reluctant to discuss specifics directly, but opens up more when compared to the situations of the other former agents - particularly Subjects F-08 and F-03. Subject F-03's designation seems to amuse her - "What, Miss High and Mighty isn't Number One for once?_"

Even awake, there was something wrong with Cal - a restlessness that was more than just heartbreak, more than just a burning for bloodthirsty revenge against Ark and Harper. York expected those. He expected the occasional incidence where California would look and not see where he was, who was with him, but this wasn't just night terrors. California would be completely awake, perfectly aware of the others in the apartment, seemingly fine, and then something would set him off - York couldn't always tell what - and Cal as York knew him wasn't there.

There was a beast lurking behind the usually smiling blue eyes and spiked black hair, a beast that had no concern for its fellow humans in general or South, Carolina, and Georgia in particular. Not even North, Florida, and York himself were immune to setting off that vicious side for no reason that York could name, and there was no recognition for them in his eyes once Cal had flipped that senseless switch. All York could do was corral him away until it passed, leaving Cal with no clear memory of what had happened during that raging haze.

_Subject F-10 is very unlikely to cause trouble. Although somewhat standoffish with her fellow surviving agents, her association with K. Britton was that of close friends as well as roommates. The subject has expressed a wish to go home and/or disappear, and Project Freelancer provided her with at least one of those options._

Stress seemed to set Cal off more than anything else; stress and too much time alone to think. York could come up with some fixes for that. Honestly, the whole group could use some time away from the apartment to do something fun and generally mindless. And Austin was the home of Grifball's Team Rampancy, always a good contender in the league runnings. It was a piece of cake to track down a schedule and a ticket booth for the next home game. It was time they got back to the good points about the project.

_Subject F-11 seems unaffected on the surface. He cracks jokes during his interviews and laughs off any hints that he might join the Crimson Sun rebellion. His untouchable attitude hints at either a coping strategy or sociopathic tendencies - even when given leave to socialize with the other subjects, Subject F-11 stands at a remove._

"Hey Cal! Guess who got front row to next week's Rampancy game!" York called as he walked in the door, tickets fanned out like a good luck charm. It was only when Cal popped his head up that York realized he'd bought sixteen.

_Subject F-12 seems fairly stable, given the circumstances, though he remains deeply in emotional denial. With his connection to Subject F-03 and friendship with K. Britton, he seems unlikely to turn against UNSC interests._

Fuck it, they were keeping the empty chairs.


	4. Chapter 3: It's a Beautiful Life

**(A/N) Hey guys, sorry this one is coming late yet again, had some problems with FFN while trying to upload it. Seems like their system was down for a few hours or so, but it's all okay, because I've got the latest chapter in Phase Two: Betrayal for you now! We get to see a little more of what's been going on since the shutdown of Project Freelancer, from the POV of Agent South Dakota, written, as always, by the amazing Lili-Hunter. Keep an eye out for some extra updates that'll be coming out from us soon! We've got two new fics out specifically for X-Ray and Vav and Grifball: Running Rampant one-shots, and soon enough I'll be announcing some information on applications for this fic. Keep your eyes peeled!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Three - It's a Beautiful Life**

**Agent South Dakota**

**Written by Lili-Hunter**

* * *

_"I'm fiercely independent, but I'm also terrified of being alone." – Adam Levine_

* * *

Contrary to popular belief, South was an early riser. Her eyes opened, tiredly, at just past six as the morning sun spread warmly across her curled body. She lay still for a few minutes, letting consciousness return fully to her limbs before she forced her legs to swing over the edge of the bed.

She glanced down as she stood, unsurprised to see that she'd kicked off her sheets in the night. South shoved the problem out of her mind – North would probably help her fix it later – as she changed quickly into fresh clothes, and crossed the small hallway to bang her fist against her twin's shut door to wake him. The apartment they shared was small, and the sound probably carried to the neighbouring units, but she ignored that, too.

Receiving no answer, South yanked the door open. North was sleeping on his side, blanket pulled up under his arms, which were loosely encircling the empty space beside him. At the sight, her smirk faded, thoughts turning bitter as she remembered the many times she'd crawled into that very embrace, fighting back tears as she sought solace in only his presence; the times she'd curled her knees into her chest, tucked her forehead under his chin, and felt reassured as his steady breathing calmed the choking panic pressing from behind her aching chest.

_Not this time_. Swept up by sudden viciousness, South strode forward and kicked the side of his bed. North's face scrunched up in displeasure as the frame rocked, throwing a forearm over his eyes. "Hey," he grumbled, "wha-"

"Get up," she snapped. Without another explanation, South turned on her heel and stomped out of the room. She heard her brother groan unhappily, but knew that he'd eventually follow.

The apartment was tiny, and barely furnished, amounting only to a small, lumpy couch that sat in front of the television, the two single beds that they slept on, and a few odds and ends – such as their kettle, and cutlery – that they'd assembled in the kitchen. It had been a unanimous decision – excluding York, who'd wanted the biggest television screen money could buy – to not waste money on their temporary accommodation.

Because that was all it was, right? South tried to steady her thoughts as she stared, annoyed, at the rooms that had so quickly become theirs. This – all of it – was only temporary. They'd be called back into duty at any moment, just as soon as the dumbass UNSC decided that Project Freelancer was fit to be continued.

Somehow, South still wasn't reassured.

North emerged a few moments later, his hair sticking up in weird places and a patient smile curling his lips. South knew that she should feel bad for snapping earlier, but she just didn't _want_ to regret it – and so she shoved that thought away too, forcing a huff. "Took you long enough."

North ignored the spite in her words. "So, what are we doing?" he asked, covering a yawn with the back of his hand as he tilted his head curiously.

She knew what he was really asking. _What's wrong?_ South didn't have an answer, not really – but the irritation still prickled painfully beneath her skin, her muscles twitching with useless frustration. She wanted to do _something_. She just didn't know what.

So she remained silent, lifting her shoulders in the angriest shrug she could manage – which was damn harder than it sounded – and was unsurprised when North nodded understandingly. Of-_fucking_-course. Trust him to know what's going through her head before even _she_ does.

Instead of putting her out of her misery, North straightened and tossed her a grin. "Breakfast?"

It was as good a plan as any, and so South nodded.

* * *

When the seven Freelancers had first moved in, there'd been the small issue of room arrangements. Each apartment had only three rooms – two that they converted into small bedrooms, and another small space that blended a tiny kitchen with an equally small living room. It was a weird set-up, but the best that they'd found on such short notice.

It was only logical that North and South would bunk together – though she'd felt a not-so-small stab of anger as they'd taken the choice away from her, _again_ – but the others weren't so easily grouped. York and Carolina had wanted, clearly, to share an apartment – South hadn't even bothered hiding a snicker at that, despite North's murmured admonishment – but California and Georgia's… 'situation'… had sunken that ship pretty quickly.

To put it bluntly, they were worn-thin baskets stuffed full of crazy. Well, Georgia wasn't so bad: mostly, he stayed quietly in his room – except for the odd bang or crash. None of them had any idea what he was doing in there, but the sounds were oddly reminiscent of the nights when he and Ark would stay up and engineer some kind of new weapon. So they left Georgia to his own devices, trusting him to recover on his own.

California was worse, though he still made some attempt at interaction. Ever since Mich's death, he'd spent his days in a mostly-drunk, raging, though ominously silent stupor, coming to himself only when they'd shoved food under his nose, or dragged his stinking ass to the gym. Mostly, though, he slumped on the couch and watched daytime re-runs of trashy reality shows. Sometimes, South could swear that she heard him talking to himself; fists curled and jaw clenched as he spat insults at whatever it was that he thought talked back to him. That wasn't to say, however, that he'd lost his touch – South could still feel her jaw ache sometimes, from the time when he'd crashed his fist into her teeth after she'd made a callous remark.

South didn't even remember what she'd said, though she knew it had had something to do with Mich. It wasn't like she hadn't known they'd been a couple – or whatever it was that they had been – but, well, she'd thought that he was completely out of it at the time. _Hardly_ her fault, no matter what Carolina had yelled.

Anyway, after a few minutes of hushed arguing, it had been decided. Carolina was sharing an apartment with Georgia, and York would bunk with California. Florida had elected to stay by himself, claiming that he "wouldn't be much help with the youngsters" – referring, South assumed, to the Absent Brainiac and current Mr. Comatose – and that he'd be perfectly fine in an apartment by himself.

Not that each of them spent much time in their respective apartments, choosing instead to crash in Carolina and Georgia's whenever they were awake by unspoken, unanimous decision. South didn't know how it had ended up with their old leader's place as the metaphorical 'base' – it just had.

North closed the door quietly behind them, locking it and slipping the key into his pocket. Not that the flimsy wood would make much of a barrier if someone truly decided to break in, but what did they have worth stealing, anyway?

They walked, effortlessly silent, down the hall before pausing outside _No. 14_. North rapped on the door with his knuckles, glancing over his shoulder. He obviously didn't want to disturb the neighbours, despite the fact that they didn't even _know_ if they had neighbours.

It wasn't so much that they were purposefully avoiding anyone else, but…. Yeah, that was exactly what they doing. Not much sense in broadcasting the fact that the newest residents were a group of highly trained, highly lethal super-soldiers, was there?

The door cracked open, and Carolina was suddenly standing in the breach. "Come in," she invited them – despite the fact that they were hardly waiting for permission. Well, maybe North was. South didn't particularly care.

Even so, she managed to nod a friendly greeting as she passed, ducking into the apartment. What could she say? Nothing quite like a few weeks spent living together in the absolute middle of nowhere – Reach, actually, but that didn't sound nearly as poetic – to encourage good relations.

Predictably, Georgia was nowhere to be seen as North led the way to the kitchen. They kept all their food in the one fridge – they'd had it all spread between them for the first couple of weeks, but running between them for all the odds and ends had quickly become tedious.

However, as early as it was, the others were already assembled there. York was sprawled in a wooden chair at the table, his forehead creased in small lines of concern as he watched over California. The Freelancer was curled up on the couch before the television, which blared some trashy reality show. South snorted, noting the way that California tensed at the sound. His head moved fractionally – enough to give the blonde a heated glare from over his shoulder. Florida chewed at his nails from the seat beside him.

"Come _on_, Cal," she groaned, feeling a faint flash of twisted pride as the words curled with condescension. The edge of her mouth twitched, halfway between a smirk and a sneer. "There's no way you actually _like_ this stuff."

Still silent, and without looking, California flipped her off. He seemed tense, though, riding a knife's edge over whatever precipice beckoned him. He muttered something under his breath, but didn't say anything to her directly - and so she chose to press her luck.

South dropped into the chair next to York, leaning back so that her sneakered feet could rest on the table. North brushed her shoulder with his hand as he passed, as if to say '_Knock it off'_, but the silent communication only emboldened her further. The gripping soles of her shoes squeaked as she crossed her ankles, throwing another glance towards California. "Put it on something better."

"Nope." His hands tightened, curling possessively around the remote on his thigh. A smirk tugged at the sides of his mouth, and California's gaze slid over to meet hers; unflinching, and undoubtedly - almost _enticingly_ - confrontational.

_Finally_.

South's mouth opened in exaggerated surprise, the ends of her lips quirking into a delighted smile as she forced back a laugh full of surprise. Unlike the good ol' Project Freelancer days, when Cal could be trusted on to get into fights whenever she so much as looked at him wrong, California had been largely ignoring her lately – seemingly occupied by his not-so-subtle conversations with thin air – and if South were perfectly honest, she was _bored_. Right now, though, Cal provided an excellent distraction. "Ah, so the mutt _can_ bark."

"Shut up, bitch," he shot back.

"Can it, South," Carolina interrupted, before the blonde could reply. She sent her a warning glance, but South only tossed her short hair. Hell, but she wasn't going to stop _now_. Things were finally getting interesting.

"Give it up, Cal," she needled him, satisfied to see the annoyance building in his expression. South smoothed her smirk away with all the professional skill she possessed, adding another demand, "Pass the remote here."

"Guys." Another warning, this time from North's lips. She brushed it aside with a wave of her hand.

Cal was _just_ beginning to crack. She could see it as his fingers twitched – imagining, maybe, that they were wrapped around her throat. She didn't bother suppressing the smirk this time, as she leant forward. "Change the fucking channel, dweeb."

"Dweeb? _Dweeb?_ Oh my God, you've _got _to be kidding me," California snickered. He turned fully in his seat to face her. "You're so pathetic," Cal snapped, his upper lip curling. "God, it's no wonder that even your own brother can't stand you-"

"'Lina, we're out of eggs," North raised his voice to cover their argument – effective, South conceded with no small degree of annoyance, as Cal fell silent once more. The Freelancer slumped back into his seat, and South barely held back a frustrated sigh, ignoring the sharp pinch in her sternum at his final insult. California ignored them all, and she thought she saw his lips moving again, though he didn't say anything more to her.

"What? We had a whole dozen left yesterday, I was sure of it…" the redhead muttered, moving beside her twin. Her fingers drummed on the fridge door distractingly.

"Plus milk, coffee, and honey," York added, listing the items on one hand. "I forgot to tell you," he said innocently as they both turned to look at him.

"But where did it all _go_?" Carolina muttered. Just as she spoke, however, one of the mysterious bangs echoed from Georgia's room. They all turned to look, more than slightly concerned, before York coughed awkwardly.

"Well, that answers that," he told them wisely, with no small amount of amusement. _What the hell would Georgia be using _eggs _for? _But Carolina also smiled, the tight lines around her eyes softening as she glanced at him. South rolled her eyes, and coughed loudly. The two Freelancers glanced away from each other, and North shot his twin a reproachful glance for ruining their 'moment', though a small spark of amusement danced in his eyes.

"Damn," Carolina covered quickly. "I guess I can-"

"I'll go," North offered quickly, as she'd known he would. "Supermarket's just around the block."

"Are you sure?" she questioned, turning to face him. "You always go-"

"It's no trouble," he assured her. North closed the fridge, and caught South's eye. "Do you want to come with me?"

God, no. She wanted to stay behind and pick a fight with Cal – the only willing participant – and feel the adrenaline rush through her like it hadn't done in weeks. She wanted to feel the pain as her knuckles cracked against someone's jaw; the stretch of her muscles as she flexed and dodged.

But this wasn't Project Freelancer. She couldn't do that. Not anymore.

So she huffed irritably, feeling the warm air roll past her lips as she climbed to her feet. "Fine."

North smiled again – God, did he ever _stop?_ – but South turned away.

* * *

South's small backpack bounced between her shoulder blades as the twins passed through the large, automatic glass doors of the supermarket. Her nose wrinkled, almost subconsciously, as the nearly overwhelming scent of cleaning products hit. _Ugh_. She understood wanting the stored food to remain hygienic, but _really?_ Overkill.

North seemed unaffected by it though, pausing by the entrance to pick up one of the bright red baskets and hooking it onto his arm. South shoved her hands into her pockets and followed, biting at her lip.

The walk through the streets to the supermarket had been quiet, the silence interrupted only by the chatter of the crowds and the occasional mutter as one of the twins would point something out to the other – a familiar store, an oddly-coloured pet, or some new fashion fad that they'd missed while fighting in deep space. But their low conversation hadn't been the only constant in South's mind. Pressing softly, but insistently, at the edge of her thoughts were four, tiny little words:

_It's better like this._

And it was. North and South were simply two halves of a whole. They'd once been likened to magnets – sometimes they just clicked together, impossible to separate. Other times they fought – or she did, because North had never, _ever_ raised a hand against her – and repelled fiercely. But they'd never left each other's side for longer than a day.

Because really, South just didn't know any other way to be. He'd been born first – so she'd never spent a single second of her life truly _alone_. She'd grown up in crowds: in a family; a team; a military squad; and finally, in Project Freelancer.

To tell the truth, though, she was getting pretty fucking sick of this one.

Carolina had never really left the Project. She was still there with the Director – and most importantly, with the leaderboard. Or maybe her competitive streak was just an inherent part of her personality. South didn't know, and she didn't particularly care enough to stick around and find out.

York wasn't _terrible_, she supposed. He helped out where he could, was best friends with her brother, and took care of Cal when no one else offered to. In that way, he was still stuck in the same old mould: an important team member, but not one that she really took notice of. Florida was much the same; cheerful and optimistic as always – but she'd never been more than teammates with him in the Project, and nothing had changed since then.

Except, of course, that they were no longer even that.

And God, don't even get her _started _on Georgia and Cal! They were just so… pathetic! Relying on the others to take care of them, and just wallowing in their grief. It hardly helped that the Project was momentarily disbanded; South was sure that some distraction – _any_ distraction – would have done a load of good for them. As it was, they had nothing to dwell on but the memories of those they had lost – and Arkansas, in more ways than one. But they'd long passed the point where they'd had South's sympathy. No, now she was disgusted by them – their sickening dependence on the kindness of others; something that shouldn't _ever _be relied upon.

South had already learned that lesson the hard way.

Something warm brushed against her forearm, and her musings were abruptly interrupted. Startled, South glanced up, into a pair of bright grey eyes. "Hey," North asked, concern threading through the single word. "You okay?"

He must have noticed her silence – a rare enough occasion, even when they were alone. South glanced down, noting that the basket was now filled with a bottle of milk, honey, and a loaf of bread. When her gaze flickered back upwards, North was still waiting. The words that flew out of her mouth next surprised even her.

"Let's leave," she urged him.

In that instant, his expression flipped. Concern made way for a sparkle of amusement, his lips quirking into a smile. "Now?" he laughed, standing with perfect posture once more. "We just got here. At least let me grab the rest of the groceries."

_Oh_. South dug her fingernails into her palm, mentally kicking herself. "No," she ground out, from between clenched teeth. "Let's leave _them_. Carolina, York, Florida, and the two _psychos_. Let's go, now!"

Her brother's face fell slightly, but enough for her to notice the change. But South didn't care. And she was too swept up in her sudden flare of passion to realize what it meant.

South tugged at the red basket on his arm. He let it slip, but not fall. North's eyes held hers, some emotion that she couldn't name swimming in their depths as she continued. "Come _on_," she told him, "We can do it! You know we can. Like Virginia, and Wyoming, and the others. We can just _go!_ Leave them behind!"

The corners of his mouth were turning down. She wanted to wipe it away, to fill him with the same elation that filled her. Why wasn't he excited? They could leave! No matter where they went, they'd get word as soon as the Project started up again. There was nothing holding them back – they were free to go!

_So why wasn't he agreeing?_

"Georgia and Cal-" he began.

South curled her lip, lifting her shoulders in a contemptuous shrug. "Who cares?" she laughed. "It's not our problem, North!"

Too late, she spotted the light crease between his eyebrows; the small, disappointed twist in his lips; and most importantly, the flash of hurt in his troubled grey eyes.

"South," he began slowly, and suddenly, she understood. Away from the Project, away from the Leaderboard… there was no doubt that he had expected them to go back to their old ways, their old names.

Instead, she'd called him _North_. Without any hesitation.

"We can't just leave," he continued, voice growing soft. "Georgia and Cal – they need us, South. It wouldn't be right just to leave them behind. Especially with what they're going through right now."

"'_Going through_'? Give me a fucking _break-_"

"How would you feel if it was the other way around?" North reminded her, gently.

South broke off mid-sentence, her throat choking around the words. It felt like he'd just _gutted_ her. Life without North wasn't something she ever devoted much thought to, simply because it was too painful. Sure, she thought about life on her own a lot – with no one to answer to but herself – but even in those few, wistful imaginings, North was never _dead_. And if North didn't die peacefully of old age, then God help whoever ended his life, because they'd better spend the remainder of theirs running from _her_.

The lines around his eyes softened, as though North knew exactly what she was thinking. "Besides," he said, subtly changing the subject, "I know that you don't think so, but we're aren't just teammates anymore. We're friends, and we have to stick by each other."

A slow burn of anger spread beneath her sternum at the implication – South didn't _have_ to take care of anyone: it wasn't her job, wasn't her responsibility; and besides, the only thing she'd ever been good at taking care of was herself, and even then it was a pretty piss-poor job – but the thought of her twin brother being taken from her was one that had stuck, numbing her reactions. She couldn't bring herself to respond to him. North seemed to take it as a sign of agreement, and he dropped the subject, turning away.

It took only a few minutes to round up the rest of the items, though North had had to ask one of the assistants about where to find the coffee beans, and in no time at all, South found herself standing beside her brother as he poked and prodded at the self-service machine. He was scanning their items and dropping them into plastic bags while she stood and watched, her thumbs hooked into her pockets and shooting dark glares at anyone daring to look twice at her brother. He stuck out from the crowd, as did she; everything from his haircut, to the muscles that his black t-shirt couldn't hide, and to his faded pink scars just screamed _military_. They all looked away though, blushing, as soon as they met her furious gaze. Eventually, despite the mix of hurt and resentment still swirling in her uncomfortably tight chest, she lowered her voice and hissed a complaint. "They're all staring."

"Of course they are," was his response. North tossed her a sad smile, lifting one shoulder in a small shrug. "We're in the middle of a war; they're hoping that the return of a few soldiers might herald something good, for a change."

Well, it didn't, beyond the fact that the UNSC were fucking stupid and wouldn't know what to do with a Freelancer if one punched them in the face – which South had half a mind to actually do. She huffed, scowling, but her attention was once again captured when the machine beeped.

North sighed, and ran a hand agitatedly through his hair as he read the on-screen notification. He turned to her, looking faintly sheepish. "Do you have any money on you?" he asked. "This is more expensive than I thought it would be."

South rolled her eyes, muttering "_dumbass"_ under her breath, and dug a hand into her small backpack. Her hand rooted around, eventually pulling free a tiny black purse – an ugly necessity. It unclasped easily enough, falling open into her hands, and South's thumb brushed against her gym membership card before she yanked a small bundle of cash free.

Yeah. She had a damn _gym membership card._ As though she were just another domesticated, middle-aged soccer mom desperate to shave off a few kilos before summer.

The thought made her sick. She was a fucking _Freelancer_, damn it! She should be out in space kicking Insurrectionist ass – not trotting around _grocery _stores.

The anger that swirled in her chest was achingly familiar, and sickeningly comforting for reasons that South didn't even want to _try _and decipher. At the very least, it was something to focus on besides the tight pinch behind her clavicle whenever she thought of the fact that they were _staying._

Because North didn't want to leave; didn't want to be alone with her. He'd shot her down without even fully considering it first, brushing her suggestion off easily. Like it had been a no-brainer.

Her own brother had picked _them _over _her,_ even though she'd been willing – begging, really – to drop everything and disappear with him.

It hurt more than she was willing to admit.

But anger was so much _simpler _than the cluster of emotions currently choking her throat, and she sank willingly into its embrace. South shoved the cash into her brother's hands with a little more viciousness than was probably necessary. Luckily, North caught all of the notes, and spared her only one odd look before turning back to the machine.

She waited sullenly until he was ready to leave, letting North take the heaviest plastic bags. He didn't complain though, and so she brushed aside the small tendrils of guilt attempting to hook claws into her chest.

The twins walked in comfortable silence back to the apartments, though South's mind was still whirring. A tiny portion of her brain was thinking about what he'd said, trying to put herself in Georgia and Cal's shoes. She imagined watching as the life faded from North's eyes, imagined the pain that would rip her heart in two if they were ever separated like that. Imagined the despair, the loss of purpose, and the loneliness that would surely engulf her.

Suddenly, she wondered if he would feel the same way.

The thought took her by surprise, slamming viciously into her mind. Internally, South reeled, almost physically stumbling. But despite the shock, she couldn't help but chase the thought.

Would he? Would North be as broken, as lost, without her – as she would be without him?

South shoved her hands deep into her pockets, desperate to hide the way that they trembled. Her heart was pounding, slamming painfully into her ribcage. Her lungs seemed suddenly shrunken, like she wasn't getting enough air. Even so – even with her body physically trying to resist entertaining the idea – she couldn't help but wonder if he _would_ be okay.

A moment later, she knew. York, Carolina, and the others; they'd help him through his grief, numb him to the pain of her passing – and slowly but gradually take her place.

South swallowed against the sudden bitterness coating the back of her throat, and tried desperately not to let herself think about it.


	5. Chapter 4: The Consultant

**(A/N) Hey guys, sorry that this is coming up a bit late, but hey, that was one helluva RvB episode last night, huh? If you haven't seen it yet, well then, I don't know what you've been doing with your time, but go and watch it straight away! You may also have noticed that we unveiled a new fic today, Grifball: Symptoms of Rampancy, as companion fic to our main Grifball story, Grifball: Running Rampant. If you haven't checked it out yet, go do so immediately! So…this chapter was pretty fun to write, and pretty crazy at times, because I got all waylaid on various trains of thought and just ran away with myself. However, I'm pretty pleased with the end product, and I hope you will be too!**

**The image referred to in the chapter, that of the Crimson Sun's list of targets, can be found at to following link -**

**http:''thefreelancercollaboration,wikia,com'wiki'F ile:Targeted,png**

**(Just, as always, remove the space and replace every ' with a / and every , with a .)**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Four – The Consultant**

**The Director**

**Written by NicKenny**

* * *

"_The object of terrorism is terrorism. The object of oppression is oppression. The object of torture is torture. The object of murder is murder. The object of power is power. Now do you begin to understand me?" _― George Orwell, 1984

* * *

I stood up from my seat as the Pelican began to descend, raising my harness over my head as I did so. From the cockpit, 479er muttered something about landing protocols, which I tactfully ignored. After all, given recent events, she should consider herself lucky that she still had a job. Attempting to lecture me about lecture me, about details that I was fully aware of, would not be beneficial to her maintaining her post.

She was just fortunate that she was the best damn pilot that we had.

After we landed smoothly onto the tarmac beneath it, I stepped out into harsh sunlight, my pupils contracting dilating to protect themselves, this suddenly illumination a stark contrast from the dimly lit interior of the old, battered Pelican that the UNSC had seen fit to grant me. I raised my hand the relieve them, sheltering my eyes as I took in the forms of several UNSC soldiers walking towards me, slowing adapting to the sunlight.

Their leader, a gruff looking lieutenant with a vivid scar running down his left cheek, a testament to the war that he was serving in, saluted tiredly as he approached, yelling over the noise of the Pelicans engines in order to be heard.

"We've been expecting you!" he yelled, gesturing for me to follow him, the soldiers behind him staring at me curiously, evidently not having been expecting me at all. "The witnesses were all discharged two days, we couldn't hold them for any longer, and we've been doing our best to keep the media out of this. Of course, your man's made that pretty much impossible, after his little stunt."

I frowned at this and increased my pace, catching up with the lieutenant. "He's _not _my man any more, Lieutenant, and I'd hardly describe the murder of a UNSC Colonel as a 'little stunt'."

The Lieutenant simply shrugged at this, his mouth twisting into a grimace. "All I know is that the word 'Freelancer' has been thrown around a lot recently, and nothing that I've heard has been good. I've spent the last week trying to maintain some measure of control over the situation, until HIGHCOM finally decided what to do." He paused and took a deep breath as we passed by a patrol, the soldiers snapping off smart salutes in our direction as we walked by, and yet again, I noticed their curiosity, but this time sensed the underlying hostility in their gazes.

"Then I hear that they're sending down the man responsible for this fuck up to serve as a Consultant during the remainder of this investigation, and, if you'll excuse me, sir, I fail to see reasoning behind this. I've had my best men search that place with a fine tooth comb, you ain't gonna find anything else there."

I glanced over to him, my interest suddenly peaked by what he had just inferred. "Anything _else_?" I repeated slowly. "What did they find?"

The Lieutenant only smiled back to me, his eyes sparkling viciously. "You mean, they didn't tell you?"

I shook my head, beginning to get irritated. "No, I received no information about any findings after the attack, only the basic summary of the actual assassination."

His smile grew wider, if indeed that was possible, drawing his lips back up to his molars. "You're gonna _love _this."

I stared at the image in front of me, my brow knotted in confusion. "What is this," I asked hesitantly, not able to tear my eyes away.

Next to me, the Lieutenant coughed into his hand, his voice betraying his confusion. "I should think it's pretty obvious, sir. It's a –"

"I know what _that _means_, _Lieutenant!" I spat, turning and pointing to the device sitting on the table next to me, pointing to it with exaggerated emphasis. "Where and when was it found, who found it, did they report it straight away or was there a delay, and are you certain that this was left by the Crimson Sun?!" I fired out, the Lieutenant looking visibly confused as he struggled to keep up with my questions.

"It was plugged into the control room, inside the building," he began slowly, wracking his brain for the necessary information. "That image up there was the last thing they transmitted before leaving, but the reason why no one outside of this site has seen it was down to the UNSC regaining control of the airwaves before the Crimson Sun could broadcast it. We found it straight away - I found it myself, actually - when we were searchin' the building for any remaining Insurrectionists. Was just sitting there, right in the middle of the room, glowin' green, just like it is now."

"And you removed it, straight away, did you?" I asked curiously, calm once again, surveying the object next to me, my hand half-stretched out, almost afraid to touch it.

The Lieutenant spluttered in indignation. "Of course not, are you kidding me! I sent for the bomb-squad straight away, then high-tailed it out of there! We had no idea what that thing was, still don't to be honest, only that it's some type of computer with a purpose that my best technicians can only speculate at. Some spook from ONI came down three days ago and had a look at it, but since they then sent you down too, I'm guessing he couldn't get squat from it either!"

I raised my eyebrows, nodding slowly. "ONI investigated this?" I asked, more as a rhetorical question than anything else, which the Lieutenant understood, and remained silent. I continued staring at it for a few minutes, before he eventually broke the silence that had fallen.

"Do you know what it is, sir?"

I turned to him, and shot a fleeting smile. "I can be one of three things, Lieutenant. A clue, a message, or a trap."

With that I turned from him and picked up the glowing cube, which fit snugly into my palm, tossing it lightly into air and deftly catching it, ignoring the Lieutenant's look of baffled horror. It clearly resembled the cube that Ark had used to cripple the Covenant ship that had assaulted the MoI, and I had no doubt that his hand was just as much present in its creation.

"Sir, I believe HIGHCOM requested that the cube remain in UNSC possession. In fact, the ONI spook in particular requested that it would be delivered to them after your visit."

With a slight laugh, I waved his words away. "I have some experience with the Office of Naval Intelligence, Lieutenant. In fact, I used to work for them. Fortunately, I still have some friends there. If I ask for the cube to remain in _my _possession, I feel confident that they will allow it. If the worst comes to the worst, just blame me. It seems to be a popular thing to do, these days."

There was a slight pause before the Lieutenant finally sighed and shrugged in acquiescence, and I inclined my head towards him

"Should we move on?"

The body had long been removed by the time that I had entered the room, but the sense that someone had died here recently still lingered. I paused at the entrance, hesitant to make my way down to an area that Ark had previously visited, all too aware of the potential traps that he could have set.

"You're sure that the building is safe?" I asked cautiously, suddenly uncomfortable at the thought of entering. "There's no chance he could have set up anything down there, in the event that I should be sent down to investigate?"

The Lieutenant let out a bark of laughter and shook his head. "I felt the same way the first time I came down, especially after reading the file your project sent us, but the bomb-squad searched this area as thoroughly as they ever have, and we've had hundreds of soldiers movin' in and out of this building every day. If there was something here waiting for us, it'd have gone off a long time ago."

Still not feeling all that reassured, I nodded slowly, attempting to steel myself. The Lieutenant pushed the door open and marched in, and I hesitantly followed him, uneasy throughout the walk down the stairs. I glanced around me as we walked down between the rows of chairs, wondering what it must have felt like to have been those spectators: helpless to stop what was about to happen, unable to escape, trapped and exposed to the whim of a man who had just openly declared himself an enemy of the UNSC.

My still-not-quite-healed shoulder wound throbbed at that thought, and I raised my free hand to it, the one not clasped around the mysterious cube, massaging it gently. The Lieutenant, having reached the foot of the stairs and walked out into the front of the room, gestured behind me towards one of the guards at the front door, who disappeared for a moment.

A second later, the room's lights dimmed, and a holographic display took shape before me, using a recording of the assassination to recreate the events. I stood aside, head cocked, as Ark and the others made their way into the room, inspecting Penn's new armour, which appeared to be a bastardised version of both our own and the Insurrectionist's hastily constructed models. Harper too, had reclaimed something akin to his old suit of armour, which currently hung in a storage room on the _Mother of Invention. _Obviously, the Crimson Sun had either found a way to produce these suits once more, or else the URF had made more of them than I had previously suspected, before we had shut them down.

Ark's two soldiers entered with them, the giant holding a large camera, the smaller holding some sort of data-pad, possibly linked to Ark's cube, which had presumably, at this point, been placed within the control room. I studied their faces, making note of them should I see them in the future, and turned away just in time to see Ark execute Colonel Grant.

I stared down at Grant's corpse for a moment, observing it dispassionately, as one might observe another stepping on an ant. From our brief period of time working together during the relieving of Haven, and the blockade of Byzantium, he had struck me as the kind of man who always sought for more power than he currently possessed, the kind of arrogant, grasping fool that the UNSC was plagued with in these days.

He did, however, have his uses, proving an adequate leader of men on the battlefield, and if his murder led me to Arkansas and Pennsylvania, then I would remember him fondly. I looked up towards the Lieutenant as Grant's holographic blood slowly began to cease leaking out of his chest wound, the carpet beneath him slowly staining a deep red, matching the real one that lay beneath the hologram.

I glanced over to the Lieutenant, who stood a few feet away, leaning up against the wall, looking uninterested, having seen this hologram play out time after time already. "Is this everything you have?" I asked slowly, preoccupied as my brain sought to analyse every detail that I had just witnessed. "You have no footage of their break-in, or anything like that?"

The Lieutenant looked considerably uncomfortable as he replied. "No sir, they fed a continuous loop to our security cameras, which was only realised during the attack. They then wiped the memory banks, so the only footage that we _have_, is what they broadcasted."

I nodded slowly, absorbing this, when the Lieutenant's sudden look of confusion caught my eye, which quickly changed to horror as he opened his mouth and gasped, pointing to the cube in my hand. I looked down, and realised that it had started to glow even fiercer than before, then began pulsing in a seemingly irregular pattern.

Around us, the lights dimmed further, and the holographic projectors shut off for a brief moment, before flickering on again, but this time, instead of witnessing Ark's assassination of Colonel Grant, only Ark was projected, standing right in front of me, an exact copy of the cube that I was currently holding in his hands, but for the fact that it glowed blue.

"Hello, Director," he said, and I could sense the arrogance and amusement in his voice. "I must confess, I didn't think that they'd allow you down here, given your track record. The again, I guess we can take this as a compliment, if our actions have troubled the UNSC enough to resort to this most desperate of tactics."

"Arkansas," I returned, inclining my head slightly. "It appears we meet again. Perhaps, in hindsight, we should have spent more time in Project Freelancer concentrating on your aim. After all, here I am, alive and well, despite your best efforts."

Surprisingly, Ark laughed at this, and nodded in reply. "Yes, Director, perhaps we should have. However, I would like to guarantee to you that if I get another chance, my next bullet will go through your heart. And I can assure you, I _will _have another chance."

I smiled grimly at this, a looked away for a moment, meeting the Lieutenant's eyes, who nodded back to me, signalling to his men who were coming down to investigate to begin tracing the transmission. "Yes, Ark, I can see that you've made putting a bullet through me one of the aims of your new Insurrection."

Behind Arkansas, the image that I had inspected with the Lieutenant in his briefing room appeared, and the nine faces and names stared back out of me, the first image stamped diagonally with a crimson-red **Executed**, obscuring Colonel Grant's features. The other seven I skimmed over with my eyes, recognising some of the names and faces, the names Dr Simon Eisenberg, Dr Isla Grace and General William Petrarch catching my eye in particular, but it was the last name on the list that gave me reason for pause, as it was below my own face, which stared back out at me.

"A hit list," I murmured, smiling somewhat at the lack of originality displayed by one of my formerly most-talented agents. "I assume you have your reasons for each of these names?"

Ark nodded back to me, and the image blinked out of sight. "All of them are murderers, Director, just like you. Between the nine of you, I have evidence conclusive enough to _prove _your collective responsibility for the deaths of over three million people. A small drop in the human race's currently population, but an unforgivable one all the same."

Turning away from Arkansas, I raised my free hand to my mouth, and began to chuckle. "I'm sorry, Arkansas, if you mean to frighten me. You wish to set yourself up as the embodiment of Justice and Nobility? Very well then, just know the people that you claim to be protecting and avenging will never support you. When annihilation is at the door, petty grievances are laid aside. The survival of the human race is at stake, Ark. Against that, what support can your cause hope to gain?"

The former agent titled his head slowly, and I got the sense that he was no longer staring at me, but something beyond me. "We can gain justice, Director, whatever the cost. That is enough. Just know that we will never surrender, we will never stop, and we will never compromise, for there can be _no _compromise, _not_ even in the face of annihilation."

Ark straightened up, and his gaze seemed to refocus on my eyes. "We _will _have our revenge Director. You can hold me to that."

He paused for a moment, before casually adding. "You should probably start moving."

With that, his hologram blinked off, leaving in its place a glowing red number ten, and the room's lights suddenly flickered back on, but I was already moving before it changed to nine, the Lieutenant hot on my heels, Ark's cryptic warning flashing in my mind as I descended into a state of near hysteria, running faster than I would have thought possible of myself only a few moments previously.

Behind me, the Lieutenant was yelling out a series of commands, ordering his soldiers to abandon their posts immediately, and in my head I could hear the seconds passing by.

_Eight. _

I rushed out the main doors into the foyer, the soldiers milling about in front of me looking more than a little surprised, but their faces quickly grew taut with understanding as I passed by them.

_Six._

They began to follow my lead, packing in behind me, all thoughts of their post removed from their mind, their only desire was to get out of the building as fast as they possibly could.

_Five._

I was nearing the front entrance, just as alarms began to sound throughout the building, the security systems no doubt having suddenly detected Ark's explosive devices, now that they had been placed back online. Behind me I head yells and muffled thumps as soldiers sprinted towards the exits with every remaining shred of energy that they had remaining.

_Four._

I passed through the main entrance's doors, but continued running, fully aware that the building was going to erupt at any moment.

_Three._

My side was beginning to throb, a sentiment which was shared by my healing shoulder, and I felt the traitorous beginning of a stich develop, threatening to kill me just a assuredly as a bullet or knife.

_Two. _

My body was in full protest about this overexertion, not realising the danger that existed as I began to pass out of the building's shadow, and hopefully the range of whatever bomb Ark had planted. I began to slow down, wheezing, but still determined to increase the distance between us.

_One. _

I threw myself forward, landing on the smooth earth and rolling behind a parked Warthog, already anticipating the blast that I had little doubt would soon make itself heard.

_Zero…_

I tensed…then, as the seconds passed, and the yells of panic around the site began to be replaced with the quiet murmurs of confusion, I dragged myself to my feet, noticing that I had destroyed the suit that I had been wearing in my desperation to evade Ark's revenge. Brushing myself off, I looked up as the Lieutenant began to make his way over to me, the several dozen soldiers standing about, looking confused as to whether or not they were now expected to return to their posts.

"Do you reckon he was bluffing?" the Lieutenant called out over to me, when the sudden blast detonated and threw us all into the air, the building collapsing upon its foundations in a blaze of fire and a deafening eruption. I was thrown against the Warthog that I had previously sheltered behind, and bounced off it, ending up sprawled on the ground next to it, moaning quietly.

Eventually, when the pain had become more manageable, and the voices of the UNSC soldiers began to ring out, rather woefully, around me, I opened my eyed and, with a certain amount of agony, pushed myself to my feet.

The complex had been completely obliterated, there was scarcely a trace of it left, other than some blackened, smoking rubble and the small crater that had been left to denote where it had previously stood. I turned slowly, looking over to the Lieutenant who was slowly getting to his feet next to me, and smiled grimly. "I think your bomb-squad needs replacing," I noted, "They must have planted something in the foundations, possibly even drilled under it in order to avoid detection."

The Lieutenant only nodded weakly to me, and staggered away, no doubt wanting to make some very embarrassed calls to his superiors. A pity, I mused, that this would no doubt reflect heavily on his career. He appeared almost capable, indeed, more so than many of the other UNSC representatives that I had been forced to meet over the past few months.

I pulled myself to my feet, and my attention was caught by the glowing cube, which had been knocked from my grip in the blast, and lay several feet away. Walking over to it, and picking it up, I realised that perhaps this visit hadn't proved the colossal failure that I had expected it to. The cube clearly functioned as some sort of transmitter and receiver to the one that Ark himself carried.

If he could listen in on me using it, then perhaps I could reverse its intention, and use it to track down his location. Of course, he would have anticipated that, and no doubt have built in fail-safes, but that wouldn't prove a problem to those with the skills to circumvent this.

And I had been keeping tabs on a few such individuals. Perhaps this would give the UNSC enough pause to agree to my demands, and reinstate Project Freelancer. After all, we were the ones most qualified to handle the threat posed by Ark and Penn's Crimson Sun.

I straightened myself up, and my smile was reflected in the glow of the cube. At the very least, I now had a plan, and something to barter with.

I could work with that.


	6. Chapter 5: Drinking Away the Pain

**(A/N) Hey guys, putting this one up a bit early today, because I'll be heading out tonight with my girlfriend, to celebrate our two-year anniversary, which should be fun! So lucky you, readers, because you're going to get another top-quality chapter, written by the fingers and sharp mind of none other than OhSoDeadly, and you know what that means, right? It's a Florida chapter! And this one might just be the best so far! And, also, pretty dam heart-wrenching. But the odds are that we will probably be alright.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Five – Drinking Away the Pain**

**Agent Florida**

**Written by OhSoDeadly**

* * *

"_You appear even-tempered though your looks will deceive__  
__And the sparks are always flying 'cause you drink for relief__  
__With the heart of a child and the wit of a fool__  
__It's a wonder why I don't try and build a wall around you."_

– "Full Circle", Half Moon Run

* * *

The glass slipped from nerveless fingers and shattered on the hard oak floor. It hadn't been holding anything, but a wash of glass shards now coated the floor.

The barman cursed, and hurried out from behind the counter, grabbing a small portable vacuum on the way. "Goddamnit, old timer, watch it! Do that again and I'm throwing you out!" He knelt down on the floor and started removing the mess, still muttering about the clumsiness of old drunks.

"Sorry," Florida muttered back. He wanted to get off his stool, get down on the floor and help the man, but he couldn't. The thought of doing it made him ill, sick with anxiety and fear. What would happen then? What would happen if he did something? What would happen if he _didn't_do something? Either way he would be to blame, a stupid darned fool. He would put himself into the thick of things and set off a chain reaction, and people would get hurt. The facts spoke for themselves. Someone, somewhere, always got hurt.

_Finally, something we can agree on. You're a mess, Butch Flowers. You're not Agent Florida anymore. The project's finished. All that fancy armour, and equipment, and teammates, they'll all be gone too. It's the end. Make your peace with it._

_But I suppose, if you knew how to do that, we wouldn't have been here in the first place, am I right?_

Killian's pill bottle had long since run dry. The voice clambered around in his head like a fiend, cutting open the tops of memories and letting their poison seep out. He had nothing for it but the alcohol. He remembered being a strong advocate of sobriety and sensibility to the folks back home, handing out leaflets and campaigning against public drunkenness on the streets of his town, and he chortled bitterly. What would they think if they could see him now?

_They wouldn't. They can't. They all burned. Remember?_

The next words came out so jumbled and garbled, he didn't want to think, just sit there and think. He had to speak, now, and next he would drink, and he would keep doing that until he felt nothing at all-

"What the heck did you say?" The bartender was back at his post, and held one hand up to his ear, frowning.

Butch swallowed, trying to fight the rising tide of despair, and stammered, "A-another, please."

The man hummed doubtfully as he filled up another glass with Arcadian lager. "You're going on a bender, old man. Careful how you go now." He slid the cold, perspiring glass across the bench and went round the back to complete some errand or another. Butch made to thank him, but the words died and withered in his throat. He couldn't. He just couldn't.

He raised the glass, making sure to keep a tighter grip this time, and let the liquid course down his gullet. It helped soothe the pain of his mind and heart, for a moment or two, then he was setting the glass back down and the temporary balm was gone. Thoughts crowded to the forefront of his mind, but even in that morass, names solidified and tore at his heart.

_Ark._The quiet, rather polite young man had gone absolutely berserk after finding out his parents had been killed on the orders of the UNSC, rather than Insurrectionists as he'd been led to believe. He had left a trail of bodies aboard the ship before springing Ian Harper from his cell and escaping along with-

_Penn._The big man's pride had been smarting for some time now, and now it all finally came out. For some reason or another-heck, maybe he was just tired of being second best-he'd joined up with Ark and Harper and escaped the ship. But not before he had turned on his former teammates and killed-

_Massa._The cheerful, kind woman had been rushing to the scene, just trying to help, when Penn had shot her in the stomach, so she slowly bled out on the floor. Florida had cried the hardest for her. Massa hadn't had a mean bone in her body. She was only trying to help, she had only tried to help-

_Michigan._The former ODST had been the first one to run into Ark and Harper, and had tried her best to defuse the situation. But Ark, crazy as a stung bear and vengeful, hadn't been in the mood for talk, or reason. He'd shot her down without remorse. How could someone have done that? To a teammate, a comrade, practically a sister?

Alaska had been badly hurt by Penn, but had scraped through. Massa and Michigan had been pronounced dead by Killian, who had even managed a few tears for the deceased agents. Butch had been unashamed to weep. He hadn't wept since his family had been taken from him. Now it was happening all over again. The names roiled and burned through his mind-

No, not names. Not names. States. Codenames. Designations. Labels. Call them whatever you want, it didn't mean a thing. No-one outside their little project would ever know what they meant. No-one else would hear Massachusetts and think of a woman with a warm laugh and an even warmer personality. No-one would visit the state of Michigan and be reminded of a tough-as-nails soldier who pushed herself to the limit but never forgot she was part of a team. No-one would think of Arkansas and Pennsylvania and think _betrayal,_think of everything that had gone wrong-

_And,_the voice sniggered, _no-one's going to think of Florida and say, "He did everything he could to help, there wasn't a thing left for him to do." No, Butch, you could have done plenty to help, and you didn't. You knew Pennsylvania was a mad dog, you knew that Harper was bad news. You could have saved so many people if you'd just had the guts, old man._

"Shut up!" he whispered, hand juddering against the glass as he went to cradle his head. "Just shut up! Now!" He began to rock back and forth on his stool, wood scraping on wood.

The voice got louder, until his head was ringing with it. The voice was furious, it was venomous, and it was his. _You deserve to know just how badly you fucked things up. You deserve to just fade away, sitting in some shithole bar like this trying to forget all of your mistakes until the world does you a favour and sends a car to run you over or a mugger to gun you down. You deserve to die, Butch Flowers, because the world gave you plenty of chances and you turned your back on them._

The tears were sliding down his face now, his whole body shook with the grief that wracked him like a virus. "Darn it," he whispered. "Goddamnit." He didn't even have it in him to apologise. Apologise to who? He felt an insane urge to laugh until it hurt. He'd spent his entire life apologising and trying to be a good man, and what had it counted for? What difference had it made? His planet was still gone. His family was still dead. His teammates were still dead.

Suddenly, the bartender came back in, and snorted in disgust at seeing him. "Jesus, why do I always get the loonies? Time for you to go, old man. Go on, out." He flapped a tablecloth at him.

Butch wiped the tears from his eyes and waved his hands feebly. Going outside would mean facing the world. _No._"No, please, I'm sorry-"

"I said out! Now!" The bartender came round the side and seized his arm harshly, and steered him towards the exit. Butch just let himself be pulled along, like an old, tired mule. He was surely that-

The door opened before they could reach it and a familiar figure stepped in. "Why don't you let him go, buddy?" California stepped towards them, face set like a stone. "He's no harm to anyone."

The bartender scowled. "This is my establishment, and who the hell are you? If I say he goes, he goes."

Cal held up one hand, and let the other fish around in his jeans pocket. "Look, how about we just…" He slapped down a fifty-credit chit onto the nearest table. "Let it slide?"

With a face like thunder, the man snatched up the credit chit, gave Butch and California one more scowl and went back to his post, still muttering. Cal flipped him the bird when he wasn't looking, and put an arm around Butch's shoulders. "Come on, Florida. Over here. It's a decent spot." The pair of them slowly made their way to a booth in the corner of the bar and sat down.

Cal ran fingers through his hair and exhaled slowly. "Thought I might find you here. North said something about you leaving the apartment. We were worried."

Butch wanted to respond, say he was sorry for making them worry, and that he wouldn't do it again. But all he could think of was that Cal had just called him Florida. And it hurt.

Seeing that the older Freelancer was still a bit shell-shocked, Cal kept on talking. "Look, Florida, I know it's been hard, but-"

"Don't."

A raise of an eyebrow. "Don't what?"

"Call me Florida." It all came out in a rush. "I got that name, and I was so proud. So happy to start again. I was a new person. Then…" The memories surged, and he let his head drop. "I'm not Florida. I'm just Butch. Butch Flowers, and a rotten human being. So there." Letting his head drop all the way, he stared into the blackness of the table top, his arms over his head. The alcohol hummed in his body, but not enough to rob him of his feelings.

"OK…" Cal sounded hesitant. They hadn't always talked that much, the pair of them, but they were still teammates, and teammates looked out for one another. "Well, I mean, you've got a point, about the not needing codenames thing anymore. I'm-"

Butch's head shot up, dread on his face. "No. I don't want to know your name. That'd just make it worse. You're Cal. Just Cal."

Cal snorted. "Oh, come on, so I'm not allowed to tell you my name but you can tell me yours? That's not fair."

In spite of himself, Butch smiled a little. "That's 'cause I told people my name on my first day. I know I wasn't meant to, but it just slipped out. Always been that way, I guess."

The younger Freelancer chortled a bit, and snapped his fingers for two beers. "Well hey man, don't beat yourself up. Remember when we first met? I have this urge to go back and punch my younger self in the face."

Butch frowned at this. "Oh come on, Cal, you weren't that bad. Matter of fact, I recall you had some very good manners!"

"Ah, but is that all you recall?" The beers arrived, courtesy of a serving drone, and they cracked them open. Butch's head swam upon seeing it at first, but he shook his head and it cleared. "Let's see, South stamped on my foot, I ended up hitting on Virginia…"

Now that was a term he wasn't familiar with. "Hitting on? You mean, like, sparring?"

At this, California laughed uproariously, pounding the table with his fist. The few other patrons in the bar cast them odd looks, but Cal wouldn't stop laughing. After thirty seconds, he was able to restrain the wheezing and gasping to squeak, "Oh my God. You don't know what-"And he was off again, into hysterics.

Feeling quite silly, Butch took another sip of his beer. Unlike before, when the alcohol had felt like a serrated knife chipping away at his insides, it felt like it was lighting a fire inside his belly. It was a heck of a good feeling. Wrinkling his nose at his teammate, he said, "You young folks and your slang! I can never understand what it is you're saying."

Cal had calmed down by this point, and wiped his eyes. "Hitting on means…like…trying to get someone to like you by flirting with them."

"Ohhhhh." He thought back to their first meeting, and gasped. "You were? But you'd just met her!"

Cal shrugged sheepishly. "I know, I know. It was dumb. But I'd just gotten there, South was kind of a bitch, Virginia looked nice and Massa was…" He trailed off here, and spoke again a moment later, much quieter this time. "Massa was a tough-looking customer."

"That she was." They shared a silence for some time, remembering their lost teammate. Butch shook his head. 'I remember seeing her in action for the first time, in the training sim. Before you got there. She was young enough to be my daughter all grown-up. I remember thinking, how is this little lady going to fare? And she went out there and kept up with the best of 'em." Emotion seized him, made it hard to speak. "She didn't deserve to go out like that."

"No, she didn't, "Cal agreed sombrely. He sighed, and raised his glass. "To Massachusetts. Massa to her friends."

"To Massa." They clinked bottles and drank. When that was done, Cal leaned back and tilted his head. "And Michigan."

Butch shook his head-not in sorrow, but in awe. "Gosh, she was really something, wasn't she?" The blonde woman had been an absolute stalwart in the team. Nothing had fazed her.

"That she was!" Cal laughed suddenly, and leaned forward. "God, I remember this one time, I was in the showers, with Georgia and Sota, just talking and messing around where the lockers were, getting dressed. Then bam, outta nowhere, Michigan walks in wearing just a towel and asks us if we'd seen her shower cap!"

Butch couldn't help laughing at this outrageous story. "Goodness! What did you fellas say?"

"We stuttered! We turned about fifty shades of red! I mean, we'd only ever seen Michigan in her armour, kicking ass, and she just walks into the _men's_locker room, no fucks given, asking us about a _shower cap_?" Cal chuckled and drummed his fingers on the table. "Eventually Sota-poor bastard was the worst of us all-just said no, and Michigan turned to leave. As it happens, her towel got hooked on the corner of a bench and it…" He didn't finish the sentence, but it was enough to leave Butch blushing. "I know right! That happened! And get this, she just turns around, wearing her birthday suit, and just says, completely deadpan, "Get a good look, because the next one won't be for a while." Picks up her towel and leaves! I shit you not!"

For the next ten seconds, there was nothing but the sounds of two men laughing and reminiscing about a friend who had departed too soon. Butch grinned, which faded into a sad smile. "No flies on her." He raised the bottle again. "To Michigan. And her shower cap!"

"To Michigan and her shower cap!" Cal roared, already looking a tad tipsy. The bottles clinked again, and they drank.

Butch exhaled heavily and gave Cal a smile. "Thanks, Cal. I needed to do this. To say goodbye properly." He rubbed his face. "I just wish-"

"That there was something you could have done?" There was no humour in his voice now. California leaned forward, blue eyes betraying a deep weariness that hadn't been there before. "Butch, I've heard Carolina pacing during the night. I've heard South arguing with North until all hours. I've _seen_Georgia taking inventory of what was on the ship the day it all went down, trying to see if there was a secret weapon that could've stopped Ark or Penn. We're all broken. All of us." He laughed bitterly. "All that time spent fighting over who was where on the board, and you know what? We're all as hopeless as each other. None of us can accept it and move on. We're fucking pathetic."

Butch's spirits were fading rapidly. "But-"

"_But,_"Cal said firmly, his gaze intently on Butch's face, "that doesn't mean we stop now. We're all broken, but we're all here to put each other back together, as clichéd as that sounds. Whatever might have happened, whatever mistakes we might have made, we still have a job to do. Save the galaxy, remember?"

Butch remembered his first day, and how charged, how intent of purpose he'd been. And, if he searched deep enough, he could still feel that same determination. It was bleeding and bruised, but it was there. Grasping it, he nodded fervently. "Yep."

Cal grinned, and although there wasn't much mirth behind it, it was better than a grim slash across the mouth. "Then fuck it! We're all bound to slip up sooner or later. You gotta roll with the punches, you know. Massa and Michigan are dead. So now we go at it twice as hard, for them. Hell, do it for them, do it for yourself, I don't care. Just do it."

_There's little better a man can do, than to do for his friends._

Butch's dad had always been a wise man. Butch only hoped he could be the equal of him.

So he nodded, set the beer aside and punched the air with one fist. "By criminy, you're right, Cal! We'll keep going! For Massa and Michigan!" _And for my family, and for Arcadia, and for the entire human race._

"Fuck yeah we will!" Cal formed a fist, and bumped Butch's. "We're badass! We're Freelancers! We'll be fine!"

"Guys?"

They both looked up, to see York standing beside the booth. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and he looked…almost happy. Something good must've happened. Butch waved. "Hey York! What's doing?"

York reached into his pocket and waved three stubs of paper in the air. "Through cunning and daring, and some flirting with some seriously ugly attendants, I have managed to attain the last three tickets to the Rampancy versus Maverick game tomorrow at Ollensand Stadium, front row!" He slammed them down on the table and did a little dance on the spot. "I _am_the man. You guys are coming, right? I mean, you've gotta!"

Cal reached over and stuffed one of the tickets into his pocket. "You're on, man." He looked over at Butch. "What about you, B-er, buddy? Florida?"

Butch wasn't listening, though, because he was too busy talking to himself. _Now listen to me, you little nuisance,_he told the voice inside his head sternly. _Maybe you're right. Maybe I am just a flabby ol' failure who'll never find peace. Maybe I am to blame. But you won't break me. Not now and not ever. I'll do whatever it takes to save the lives of others, be they teammates, other soldiers or civilians. That's my promise to you, and no amount of nastiness is going to stop me! Understood?_

The voice, for the first time ever, had nothing to say.

"Florida?" Cal was looking concerned. "You ok? You wanna come to the game? I mean, if it's not really your thing-"

"No pressure at all man-"York started to say.

The older Freelancer seized Cal's beer and downed what was left of it. Then he stood, and shrugged jovially. "As my old pa used to say, fuck it. Let's go see some Grifball!"

_"Fuck it?"_

As he exited the bar, to the sound of his teammates voicing their shock and disbelief over what was quite possibly the first time they'd heard him swear, Florida felt like things might just be ok after all. Maybe things were looking down right now, but he was going to see a game with his friends, and that was all he cared to care about right now.


	7. Chapter 6: String Theory

**(A/N) Hey all, here comes your Saturday dose of Phase Two: Betrayal! Written by the always fantastic Warg, I am proud to introduce the return of Agent Georgia, and, well, you know it's gonna be good when you meet one of the lead antagonist's former best friend again, and when Warg's writing, you know it's going to be **_**great.**_** The delayed X-Ray and Vav chapter will go up early tomorrow, and hopefully will be accompanied by the very delayed Grifball: Running Rampant chapter (had a bit of deadline trouble), but we'll just have to see. At the very least, this will keep you distracted for the time being, and hey, you won't have to hold out for too long, I promise!**

**Enjoy!**

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**Chapter Six - String Theory**

**Agent Georgia**

**Written by WargishBoromirFan**

* * *

_"Rashness is the faithful but unhappy parent of misfortune." - _R. Buckminster Fuller

"_You don't risk your life to save your enemies. You protect your friends and destroy your enemies. That was life. That was reality. Basic survival of the fittest: Protect yourself first, protect your own family and tribe second. Protect your enemies never_." - Cassie, _Animorphs: The Departure_

* * *

The wrench was firm and solid in his hands, twisting exactly as he wanted it to, the resistance from the socket a predictable thing, an expected and quantifiable result. The weight of the chromed steel was not outside standard deviations, even filled as it was; his rifle was heavier by far. The narrow space might have been claustrophobic to someone else, but it was plenty of room for the thoughts to echo in his head.

_"So what are we shooting for?" South had asked him, shotgun rested casually against her shoulder._

_"A chance to talk. And best of ten?" Well, just because he'd wanted a serious conversation didn't mean they couldn't have any fun._

_"What, you can't speak to me unless you're armed?" It was definitely easier to speak when he could keep his eyes on a target, line up what he wanted to say to her with a shot in front of him._

_"It is easier when I know what targets you're aiming at besides me." He wasn't trying to put any malice into it, but she narrowed her eyes behind that purple and green helmet and slammed open the door to the second training room before practically dragging him inside._

_"If you've got something to say, say it." It was easier to load rounds into his gun than meet her eyes, even with her hand gripping his shoulder a little too tightly._

_"I'm not trying to talk to Cal right now, because there is no talkin' to Cal right now. He acts like he's got somebody else talking to him most o' the time since that shot, if not before then. But South… you know what you'd do for your brother." He second-guessed himself and attempted to drop the subject without fumbling his shotgun as he glanced upward. He should have polarized his visor. "Hell, he's probably already given you the third degree; let's just shoot some clays."_

_South released him, but wasn't so ready to give up the conversation, pressing a finger into his cheek-guard. "North knows when to keep his mouth shut. He has as many morals as your precious roomie, but North's aren't about to get us all killed."_

_"Seems to me like Ark's morals saved some lives," Georgia said with a shrug, pushing her hand away._

_"Innie lives?" She snorted dismissively, twisting the wrist he'd used to push her off just enough to prove she could break it if she'd really wanted to. "At the risk of California's."_

_"Sounds like you're not so sure of Ark's morals, as much as you belittle him for keeping 'em."_

_"Hey, he drew first." South certainly had her gun in position quick enough, on the training room floor and before that._

_"That doesn't mean he'd actually use it. You know how he let Cal win that training match." How he'd worked an already volatile Cal into a lather and then given him live ammo, just to prove a point to himself…_

_"Keep telling yourself that you're doing the same here," South said, and called out for F.I.L.S.S. to start the first round. "He still kills people, Georgia."_

It hurt worse now, but even then, he wasn't sure he was saying the right thing, not that he'd ever let that stop him. _"He kills those that deserve to die. You can handle yourself, South. You're a big tough badass and I love that about you. But if you're acting as the devil on North's shoulder, doin' what he can't, forgive me if I do the same for Ark."_

She'd stared at him for much too long, eyes narrowed, calculating. Then she appeared to decide that he wasn't worth her time, not then and there. _"Please. You're no badass."_ She'd won the round, though Georgia had kept at least a few tatters of pride for standing up and saying something. Now, he was happy to have most of his upper torso wedged beneath the drain line.

He twisted the wrench. Even if the contents of the pipe were currently a mystery, this was a solvable one. It wouldn't come back to haunt him later, give or take the scent of ancient pureed tuna. "Think I've got it, Miz Babka." He pulled the disposal unit loose and pushed out for the trash can.

"You're sweet boy." The little old lady patted him on the cleaner side of his t-shirt, hardly looking like the type to touch the orange blood the graphic designers had silk-screened around the "This is My Horde-Killing Shirt" logo, much less the miscellaneous lubricants, oils, and actual types of blood to stain the front, back, tail, collar, and sleeves of Georgia's clothing. He hadn't quite believed that this seventy-something four-foot-nothing neighbour lady was ex-military even after seeing her pictures, but he liked to come over and do odd jobs about the place anyway. It gave him something to do, and the stories she provided about her post-war life almost gave him hope. Georgia wasn't sure he'd ever be ready to hang up his rocket launcher indefinitely, but the wrench offered the chance to build something, and he'd been working with too much rubble to add to the destruction right now.

"Aw, I like fixin' these. Sweet has nothing to do with it," he waved her off bashfully. _"He kills those that deserve to die. …Forgive me if I do the same for Ark."_

"Still, you're good boy. Make some girl happy one day," Babka insisted. Her English wasn't the best, but his Russian was much worse, and they both communicated well enough in the common language of explosions, hand gestures, and clogged pipes.

He could not meet her face. "Maybe so." He'd had plans at one point - idle ones, certainly; you didn't go into engineering on a military scholarship to pick up chicks, but he'd vaguely toyed with "Cody George" for a boy or "Savannah Shannon" for a girl - but he could accept the truth: they weren't happening.

There was a knock on the door, and Georgia let out a breath when he saw York on the other side. Of what was left of the team - at least those that had stuck together - York and North were probably the least broken. At least they faked it well. "Dosvedanya, Mrs. Babka. Might you have a handyman around here that I could borrow?"

"Fixing sink," Babka said, taking the ruined disposal unit from him and raising it up where York could see. It rattled as she held it up, and she peered nearsightedly within. "Aha! Was penny in sink." Along with several other things, but she pulled it out with little concern for the mess or shredded disposal blades. "Here," she wiped it off and handed it to Georgia. "Is lucky."

York just smiled at her expression, and Georgia pulled his ballcap lower over his face, unwilling to contrast the old lady's satisfied glow or York's gentle upturn about the lips, not quite as present in the grey eyes, but certainly reflecting at least an ember of happiness. "Good to see you're getting paid well," the older Freelancer teased him.

"I've already gotten one for luck," Georgia attempted to turn her away. It was now floating somewhere in the Byzantium system, but he'd had it, at one point. "Best you keep it, Miz Babka." She, at least, need never be broken again. His tool belt felt too light, and he couldn't exactly stuff an AR down his pants leg while doing a repair job.

"Money brings money," the septuagenarian insisted, closing his fingers around the abused copper. "Luck for two." She winked, and to York's credit, he didn't laugh too loudly.

"So what brings you over?" Georgia asked. "Cal break the dishwasher again?" There was less talking to him, since Harper had slipped out of containment, leaving Mich and Massa dead and a bad taste on more than Cal's tongue. Harper hadn't stolen out of there by himself or pulled the triggers.

"Nah, I just figured you'd be making the rounds rather than hanging at your place. Wanted to let you know we've got tickets to the Rampancy game next Friday. You have a date you wanted to take with you?" York jibed. Babka waved him off, laughing at the light bow, but tapped her nose conspiratorially behind Georgia's back.

"We all know you'll have a distraction from the game, but most of the rest o' us go to actually see Grifball," Georgia returned, rising to his feet and knocking the grease and lime off his hands.

"Carolina has been watching the game for longer than you've known about it," York argued, only a slight blush giving him away. Georgia had seen her sit through a few minutes to a round of any given match, but she never seemed that interested in what was going on onscreen. "She said she wanted to go."

"'Cause of you." The engineer pressed his advantage while York was still off balance. "You've gotten a lot of us hooked on the game."

York could only rub at the back of his head at that, mussing his hair further than usual. "Well, I haven't sold Florida on it, entirely, and you know how South generally reacts to the offer. Wish we knew where the rest of the crew was bunked down; Niner and Killian really would love to go and I hate to lose the tickets…" As usual, he attempted to deflect any teasing about his own love life with a distraction.

The Director of Project Freelancer didn't necessarily guard his female agents as if they were all his own dear overprotected daughters - the sight of a bespectacled old man cleaning his sniper rifle, no matter how wily and determined that man might be, was a little less discouraging when the girl one was pursuing could make better use of the weapon than he ever could - but nobody wanted to get into a discussion about fraternization with the boss, either, least of all York. Still, better Dr. Church than Harper… Neither was here right now, and Cal wasn't teasing York about his less successful flirting record, but flirting in Cal's presence felt like taunting him well beyond anything he'd ever deserved. York avoided the topic by involuntary reflex now.

"I think they'd go along, if only for the chance to get outta the apartment," Georgia opined optimistically. And if Florida would rather curl up in a ball in the dark, North and York could probably carry him out with the offer of a round on them. Georgia respected that the oldest Freelancer needed his space, but Florida was looking in desperate need of some sunshine in his life, the boiling Texas weather be damned. "Anything else I can help you with, Miz Babka?"

"Nyet," she waved the two Freelancers off. "Go play. Come back later and tell about ball game."

California seemed to perk up when Georgia walked back into the Freelancers' quarters, and for once it wasn't solely a broken glass mouth with dead eyes gazing at someone else. It still wasn't the cocky grin he'd worn while making an off-colour joke on their first Pelican ride over to the Mother of Invention, but the pupils were focused in on the real world, and if the crooked smirk wasn't reflected in them, the lines around his lips hinted at a genuine smile. "This guy tell you that he blew half his pay check on sixteen front-row tickets?"

Georgia raised his eyebrows. York had told him that he'd gotten enough for everyone, but not that he'd bought enough for everyone. "You do know there're only seven of us, right?"

"Well, I am trying to sell a couple, since Killian and Niner are off who knows where," York argued sheepishly.

"Two. Out of sixteen. That's still two seats for each of us, provided we even get Florida, South, and Carolina to go." Cal underestimated York and North's persuasive abilities, even as he made a textbook case for York's.

"One for each of us, really." York took a breath, watching Cal carefully and then glancing sideways at the man following after him as if worried about how Georgia would take it. California, Georgia could understand, but since when had the others tried to spare his sensitivities? "I wanted to have a seat available for the agents who couldn't be with us, since they're still with us in spirit." Yet he was planning to give away two spots… It didn't take a whole lot of math to make that subtraction. "I wanted to do something while we were all together, but it was too soon and then we got stuck in interrogations and then half the team wandered off, but I don't want to put it off forever. Let's do this while we can, right?" York meant well. One could tell even without meeting that painfully earnest gray gaze, that hesitant half-smile. Georgia pulled his cap lower.

"Neither of them were really into Grifball," Cal replied, letting both Georgia and York breathe slightly easier. Slightly. "But put Mich's seat between me and Sota, right?"

York nodded. "Considering that I bought tickets, I think that gives me dibs on a spot between Massa and Carolina, if only because Wyoming and Alaska aren't here to argue." It went without saying that there'd be another empty seat on Massa's other side. "North should be trying to get South on board right now."

It didn't sound like it was going well. "Maybe I could help?" Georgia screwed up his courage and resettled his shoulders. Generally, if the twins were fighting, the best options were time, distance, and Florida, but those weren't options right this second and Carolina's brand of solving the problem would probably not help South enjoy a live match.

"Good luck, man." Cal saluted him. Georgia knocked at the Dakotas' door, wondering idly why they'd still chosen to room together in the apartment even when South kept publicly demanding her space. Force of habit, he supposed, and the fact that the only other obvious option for South to have as a roomie was Carolina, which likely would not turn out well. The team's number one still kept to herself for a reason. Technically, Georgia shared an apartment with her - insofar as he had space in the Boss Lady's spare bedroom where he failed to sleep and usually failed to put any of his own designs together at night, but he'd at least managed to install a door into Florida's spare bedroom connecting it to his. If he left the door half ajar with the lights off, every now and then he could leave the belt sander running, retreat to the spare room, and catch some z's on the floor.

"What?" South fired the first shot across the bow before the door even opened. York flinched and shook his head on the other side of the common room couch.

"Just got back and heard we had plans for this Friday!" Georgia attempted to keep his voice peppy.

North opened the door, relief evident in his features. "You're in, I take it?"

"Of course! York was hopin' you could help him get Florida on the wagon - er, bandwagon," Georgia verbally backpedalled, attempting to give the male twin an easy out. He understood trying to kill a few noisy brain cells with the proper drenching of alcohol, but sometimes the room Georgia shared with the older Freelancer felt emptier than Carolina's. It was easier to go help Mrs. Babka.

North closed the door behind him a little too loudly, and Georgia waited until the other men left for his room before trying the knob.

"Whatever you're about to say, don't bother," South growled as Georgia entered, hands up in a guard position.

"Don't go for Grifball, South," he told her. It would be great if she enjoyed the game, but she had her own hobbies away from her brother, just as North had his Grifball guy time. "Go for the team. We're trying to do a memorial for those missing. Massa. Mich. Ark." The last had come out before he'd even thought about what he was saying.

South lowered her head bullishly, narrowing her eyes behind crossed arms. "Ark? You sure you don't want to hold a wake for Penn, too? It's a little early for me to have killed them."

"I know it's stupid, but I still hope that Ark'll realize what he left behind and come back. He had so much going for him with the Project…" he trailed off half-suggestively, giving her a heavy-lidded glance.

South had no empathy for his line of thought. "That is about the stupidest thing I've heard all day. What he left behind was a bullet in the Director and two dead Freelancers. Have you even looked at the news?"

He shrugged. "Just my tech journals and the sports feeds." Rumour invaded everywhere, but he'd fallen out of the habit of trying to keep up with the civilian galaxy since he'd left behind his name in it. Even when he'd gotten the latter back, his little brother threatening to share it with the whole project, it was easier to go by Georgia. Georgia was a top-notch engineer and fighter; the other guy… he wasn't sure anymore. The name on the back of his shirt over the "25," the in-joke he'd first bought it for, had gotten covered in stains - oil, grease, and too much blood.

South sneered at his self-inflicted ignorance. "I can't wait to see your face when you see just what your precious Ark has done."

"My precious Ark? Maybe I was reading too much into it, but I saw the way Cal and Mich started off and I saw the way he treated you, the way he saved you when panic held me back… he didn't say anything, but neither did you and I wasn't goin' to get in the way of either of you for nothing. If that's what it takes to bring him back, South, I -" _love you but_ - "I'd step back for you two without a word and smile for it." It was an impossible thought, but it wasn't the worst one. The worse image was how South shrunk into herself at the very idea that Arkansas might have been interested in her, leaning for her absent brother to come cover her six. At one point, Georgia had hoped he'd be able to save North the trouble, but he mostly seemed to be making it worse. He shouldn't have said anything.

"Georgia, shut up." He had flustered her, and the only reason she was still winding up to furnace-blast rage was that she wasn't used to fighting with him seriously. The easy target had revealed a spot so weak that it might hurt her to hit it. "You were never in the running. There is no running, and Ark should damn well be running away from me. So why bother wishing for the impossible?"

Because it was easier for both of them than to keep discussing the tangle of parts that had never quite meshed, as much as he wanted them to. "I keep thinking Harper must've done something; the general must've twisted his mind somehow when he went down there alone. You didn't see what Harper did to Cal, but it wouldn't surprise me in the least to know that he and the other Innies just snapped something in Ark. My fault for lettin' him down there alone; York was pretty much conscious and Cal would've done no worse than slice the prisoner to bits if we'd left Harper restrained good and tight…" Georgia trailed off. It was far too late to second-guess himself, but since she'd asked, it all seemed to flow out of him like poison from a lanced cyst.

"We can't trust him. The bastard's shown his colors, and they sure aren't UNSC. Cal would be first in line to kill him, if I don't see him first." The way South Dakota reached for her gun seemed more a security ritual than a threat, Georgia having done something similar enough times, but he didn't doubt she'd blow away whoever interrupted her at it.

"Yeah, but he used to sleep not five feet from me, in a room so full o' sharp, heavy, and flammable material that smothering me with a pillow would be the least believable way to kill me without leaving evidence, and I probably gave him plenty of cause." Like not sleeping when most everyone else would be in bed, three nights out of six... "That just doesn't seem like the type to kill Mich or Massa in cold blood."

"Fuck that traitor and fuck you," she spat.

"Well, that, uh, was kinda what I was hoping for your help with." She didn't seem too pleased with the joke.

"You better figure out your priorities and do something about them, Georgia. 'Cause if you leave me and Ark to do it, it's not gonna be pretty." South loomed over him. Georgia couldn't resist. He tilted his head up and kissed her, lips soft and inquiring against her cheek.

She knocked him good and didn't talk to him again until game day.

_"...Forgive me if I do the same..."_

_"...Forgive me if I…"_

_"...Forgive… Ark._"

_"...If I do..."_

_Forgive me._


	8. Chapter 7: Relapse

**(A/N) Hey guys, sorry that this one is going up late, we've just had some deadline issues recently, but we're all doing our best to get us back on track! Our next update for Phase Two: Betrayal, will probably be a little delayed, but after that we'll be right back on track, and I'm working on getting our other fics up and running back on schedule too, so bear with us! Anyway, here we are, back with California after Mich's death, and if any of you have seen the one-shot TunelessLyricput up this week,****_"Michifornia"_,**** I think you'll be able to imagine how he's coping. (Hint: not well!)**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Seven – Relapse**

**Agent California**

**Written by BrambleStar14**

* * *

_"California had changed after Michigan's death. I know that we all had, to some extent, but Cal in particular. Hell, he was barely recognisable as the person that he had been before. He had been a good soldier, if at times unwilling to follow orders, but now…"_

_"Agent Carolina? What was he now?"_

_"Now he was a liability, a threat to his own squad. He had snapped, and none of us wanted to acknowledge it, none of us wanted to voice the elephant in the room, but we all knew that if he didn't change, if he didn't recover, then he'd follow Mich into the grave sooner rather than later. The bigger concern, although we didn't acknowledge it at the time, was that he might take some of us down with him."_

_-_ Agent Carolina and the Counselor discussing California's mental deterioration in the months after Michigan's death, taken from the Counselor's audio records.

* * *

Like every other human being since the dawn of time, Cal had his good days and his bad days. More often than not, ever since the…events on the _Mother of Invention_, he had been having bad days.

And today, Cal was having a bad day.

It hadn't been easy, even to attempt recovery. Not that he had tried all that much. He felt like he had reached rock bottom. In between staring at the wall, imagining what could have been and what he could have done, feeling like a pile of shattered glass, he would wake up at night, screaming, tears running down his face, the most emotion he actually tended to show nowadays. And, of course, there was always the running commentary.

'_Cal? Cal. Caaaaaaal.'_His other side never shut up anymore. He used to be able to block him out. Used to. Past tense being the key part of that statement. Since his exposure to Harper and since-

His thought process caught suddenly, snagging, like it refused to say it. If he said it, became real, inescapable. He couldn't let go.

Since _Ark,_he couldn't stop hearing the other him. He wouldn't shut up. Ever. Cal even caught him managing to regain control for a few seconds, talking out loud, quite against his will. The very idea made him shudder. He hated the idea of losing control. He knew that it was only a matter of time, this time. He hated watching himself in the mirror, seeing the demons lurking behind his own eyes, whiting out and waking up to see a grin on his face that he hadn't been wearing before. The worst time was when he woke up near York's bed with a knife, poised casually near the sleeping man's neck.

Cal had locked himself in the bathroom that night, crying. It scared him. York, his friend, one of the nicest guys that Cal knew, and he was a danger to him. To every single Freelancer and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. The thought caused bile to rise in his throat yet again, as it had every time he thought about it.

'_Seriously Cal, you can't ignore me. Or think about me without me knowing. Please talk. Pleeeassee? You've been boring for ages. It's more fun when you argue back. Makes them think you're insane. I mean, you are, but they don't know that.'_

Cal scowled, his blank eyes staring at the television in front of him, his hair slightly ruffled by the cool breeze that flowed in through the nearby open window. It was like having a very talkative and extremely annoying shadow. One that knew everything about him. He could hear them behind him. The pair of them. York and Florida were whispering in undertones on the other side of the room and he could literally feel their searching gazes on the back of his neck, his hairs standing on end.

Why couldn't they just leave them- he shook his head roughly- him, leave _him_alone. Sota would understand, if he hadn't left, and Cal wasn't ashamed to admit his bitterness at that fact. He had thought that Sota had his back, no matter what. _So much for that._ Neither would Mich-

He stood up abruptly and walked to the door, ears almost twitching at the sudden silence within the Texan apartment. Opening the door quickly, he walked out, heading back to his room before they could question him.

(Page Break)

Cal was having another bad day.

This one was quieter. For once. He just needed space. Or so North had commented quietly to Florida when Cal had walked suddenly away from him without warning. Cal knew that Butch meant well, but he didn't need, _didn't want,_talks about-

About his feelings. About Ark. Or about any of it. Didn't want it, didn't need it- He shook his head rapidly, trying to clear it. He was going in endless circles. That seemed to be a metaphor for his life at the minute. Walking aimlessly in circles. It was so typical of him. He got close to people and they always ended up abandoning him.

Mark had Cal reached down onto the floor next to him, picking up the bottle easily and taking another swig, enjoying the burn as the remaining drops trickled down his throat slowly, in an almost desperate attempt to wipe his mind - to forget. Placing the bottle clumsily back down with a loud clunk, he stared up into the sky, legs dangling from the edge of the rooftop as he leant backwards, looking out at the small, insignificant lights in the sky and wondering where it had all gone wrong.

_Harper had done it,_ Cal hissed to himself. He had allowed himself to become far too close to the Innie and where had that ended up? He blinked rapidly, wiping away the rather surprising presence of tears on his face. Why was he even crying? He quickly took another drink of the alcohol that he couldn't even put a name to next to him, although he had a sight suspicion that it may have been extremely cheap beer, still staring upwards, legs swinging freely in the open air.

And then Mich-

He gritted his teeth angrily, turning his head to look down at the long drop below, as though staring into the abyss he had found himself hanging over. Why did she have to try and take Ark down by herself? They could have done it together. It didn't have to be her alone. Hell, half the time Cal considered turning a gun on himself, when it all became too damn much for him.

'_Technically, you ran away from Ian,'_the other him commented snidely, and Cal could almost see him, sitting next to Cal like a ghost, legs swinging above the fall below them in exactly the same way as his own. His usual cocky, arrogant smirk was absent from his face as he looked away from Cal, concentrating instead on the drop below them.

'_The two of us, you and me, we were doing fine. You even admitted it, you liked the Innies. You said they were fun-'_

"Shut up," Cal spoke aloud, scowling. "Things were different. It wasn't the same back then. And I wasn't used to you."

'_You act like I'm some different person who you never knew. I am you. And if you'd stayed with the Innies, Michigan might still be alive. Or maybe you'd have killed her yourself. Never know how these things go,'_it chuckled quietly, but seemed unable to gain any amusement in his reaction this time around. Cal glared at it, and if looks could kill, his other half would already be buried six feet underground. With scarab beetles inside the coffin.

"I said shut up!" he snarled, louder this time, ignoring the other guy's sniggering. "It's not true! I tried! If she'd stayed with me…if I'd been quicker…if I'd killed Ark-"

_"Then she might have lived. Maybe. But she hasn't. You made the wrong choices."_ It never wore of, the strangeness of hearing himself say words that weren't issued by him. He got ready to retort, when a voice rang out behind him.

"Cal? Who are you talking to?"

He turned his head slowly, wincing as the effects of the alcohol began to kick in, a strange layer of fuzziness surrounding his eyes, as though his doppelganger refused to depart. York stood on the roof behind him, eyes warm, mouth turned downwards and the stress lines that he had gained over the last few months were easily visible. He looked like shit, but Cal doubted that he looked any better in the slightest. In fact, the opposite was far more likely.

"York." His voice was slightly raspy from disuse, apart from the screaming when he woke up in the middle of the night or the talking to _himself_. "You look like shit." Well, what else was there to say? York blinked a couple of times, apparently surprised at the fact that Cal was addressing him directly. He hadn't been talking to the other Freelancers pretty much throughout the entire 'trip'. Shaking it off, he walked over slowly, sitting down next to Cal, knees drawn up.

"Cal, man, are you alright? We're just wondering if you wanted to come down for a while. I know you've been quiet, but we got a few movies and I think North went to get pizza. Cal?" He paused. Cal was relieved. For once, they weren't trying to bring Mich-

To bring _her_ up. York slowly stood up as Cal took another slow drink, not looking at him, while _he_ sniggered next to him, watching Cal carefully. As York reached the door which led back down to the rest of the building, Cal finally spoke up.

"Sure. Pizza. Why not?"

York stopped before turning around, surprise evident on his features as he regarded Cal with a slight smile on his face. Slowly, Cal got to his feet, finishing the bottle in his hand before dropping it next to the growing pile of its previously emptied brethren. Forcing a smile on his face and followed by the mutinous whispers issued by himself, he walked past York through the door.

(Page Break)

Cal was, yet again, having a bad day.

South had been talking again. About Mich. He gritted his teeth as he repeated the name inside of his head. It was agony. He hated forcing himself to think about her. It was too painful. He was still like a pile of shattered glass, fractured and broken. He wouldn't ever be the same again. For one, the other half of him still hadn't left. It continued keeping up a regular commentary and Cal had started letting him take over for a few minutes at a time.

It was freaking the others out slightly, even if they refused to show it. How else would he have expected them to react when he suddenly became more violent, more vindictive and more importantly, far more aware of his surroundings, a fact that South discovered to her cost after being on the receiving end of their fist when she decided to make another rather callous remark about Mich.

Carolina had dragged her out as Cal had settled back into his lethargic, broken state. Cal had made more attempts at interactions, had tried to act like he used to, become more of the person he had been before, but it was just impossible. He simply didn't feel the same. He couldn't act how he used to.

So here he was, sitting on one of the beds in the room he shared with York, possibly his own, hunched by the open window, feeling the breeze on the scarred section of skin covering the right hand side of his face. It seemed to be the only thing that served to calm him down these days. He was rifling through the various photographs that he possessed of either himself or Mich throughout their lives, one hand absently twisting her dog tags around his fingers like some bizarre toy that he clung to, childlike and unashamed.

"You know," his double said aloud, using Cal's mouth, lying on the bed with his head leaning against Cal's hunched up legs, holding a photograph of a grinning Mich alongside a laughing Cal close to his eyes. "You actually look really happy in this one. Just saying."

Cal snorted. "Thanks. I'll be sure to take _your_expert opinion into account when I scrapbook them."

His double burst out laughing. "Nice. Back to jokes. Moved on so fast, Shaw?"

Cal froze at his words, staring at the dog tags he kept around his neck, having never removed them since he left Project Freelancer, as though they held the answer to a puzzle he had been trying to solve for years. Slowly, he placed the photographs back into their box, before standing up, dislodging his double, who fell onto the floor, laughing through his muttered curses.

"Not moved on," Cal said, rubbing his eyes as he walked to the bathroom, pausing to stare at his own battered reflection. "Just... staying alive. For her. For Mich." His double raised his eyebrows, following Cal into the room, wearing a half-serious face for a change.

"So, this is you trying to move on? It won't be the same anymore." Cal knew. He was broken. He was technically eligible for a psychiatric check-up. Which would likely end up as a failure. After all, the ones he had gone through before hadn't helped him that much. He was filled with bitterness and anger and- he sighed, admitting it- survivor's guilt. He blamed himself for her death.

"I know. He took her."

His double sat on the side of the bathtub next to him, watching him closely."Does this mean you'll listen to me more often?"

Cal looked at the eager face, a dark parody of everything he was, had been, could still be. He shrugged, a universal sign. His other self took the gesture at face value and grinned.

"You know, you're available again. You could always go back to-"

"No."

(Page Break)

Sixteen tickets.

The symbolism wasn't lost on Cal. York had bought sixteen tickets from his own earnings to a Grifball game. Rampancy vs Maverick. The old Cal would have been excited beyond his wildest belief, eager to see every player and every single move from the sport he loved so much.

He could still feel the enthusiasm, but now it was considerably more muted as he cheered alongside the rest of them. The stadium was brightly lit, spotlights illuminating the boxed arena. Swords flashed through the air, carving through steel and flesh. Players screamed as they were cut down and forcibly respawned.

After one ferocious swipe from a Rampancy Hybrid, some new kid who had been subbed in, Jackson Rothe, Cal reckoned his name was, consulting the match program that he held in his hands, his double, sitting in Mich's seat to Cal's left, jumped to his feet and clapped.

"Did you see that!? He just sliced him in half!" he howled in glee, pumping the air with his fist. Cal couldn't help it, grinning as he tugged him back down, drawing an odd look from York, sitting at his right, though his attention soon reverted to what had occupied it before - half back on the game and half back on Carolina.

Maverick soon had to substitute in a new Runner after their starting one got himself injured through a bone-snapping mixture of Rothe's gravity hammer and a failing respawn system. Some young kid, nineteen-ish, Alex Cross – as the announcer informed the crowd- stepped up, rapidly darting through Rampancy's defenders and evening the score at 4-4.

At this, Rothe went on a rampage, carving his way through Maverick entirely on his own, showing incredible ability, wielding a sword and a hammer simultaneously. Dropping the sword in favour of the bomb, he raced for the goal. This was it, his first real game, his potential break, when Maverick's Tank stepped out in front of him, grav hammer swinging, catching the kid on his left side and propelling him to the other side of the stadium. Rothe cried out as his respawn settings kicked in, sending him back to his own starting position with a low _'thrum.'_

"That must have hurt!" the double noted wryly. For some reason, York looked over and nodded at Cal himself. Shrugging to himself, he turned back to the game, just in time to see the lights suddenly go out. Confused whispers raced throughout the stadium, building to a crescendo of confusion. Screaming, yelling, panicking and the harsh barks of the security as they tried, and failed to restore order.

Then the lights came back on. Looking around for a brief moment, Cal's survival training kicked in, and he noticed _them_. Armoured soldiers marching into the stadium through the various entrances, wielding rifles and all manners of assorted weaponry. The crowd hadn't quite noticed them yet, but the Freelancers had, always aware of their surroundings, even here. Cal and his double both stood up in perfect synchronisation, Cal's hands dropping to his belt but finding only empty air, searching for the array of weapons that he had carried with him at all times as a Freelancer.

His sharp eyes picked up the emblem on their uniforms, and he felt his heart lurch, his mouth dry up and his body grow cold.

The Crimson Sun had arrived.


	9. Chapter 8: Half-Time Show

**(A/N) Hey guys, sorry about going AWOL recently, real life was just reared its ugly head over the last few days, and it didn't help that I came down with the 'flu at the same time. However, I'm on my way to recovery, and have begun the task of delegating more roles to members of the Freelancer Collaboration, which I probably should have done a long time back. We'll hopefully have the X-Ray and Vav and Grifball: Running Rampant fics back up and running soon, we're just currently suffering from deadline difficulties and a few drop-outs, but doing our best to fix things!**

**Just wanted to announce the fact that we've set up a group on the RT website, and you'll be able to find a link on our profile. Also, we've just set up a Twitter account, and a link will be on our profile for that as well. A few members have expressed interest in setting up a blog, so keep your eyes out for information about that in the future!**

**Finally, just wanted to let people know that, in about a week, on the 25th of November, we'll be opening our forum to new writers who wish to take part in this collaboration, taking on new applications for OCs, 479er, the Counselor and, this is the big one, Agent Washington, so keep your eyes peeled for more info on that too in the coming week.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Eight – Half-Time Show**

**Arkansas**

**Written by NicKenny**

* * *

"_Criminals do not die by the hands of the law. They die by the hands of other men."_  
― George Bernard Shaw, _Man and Superman_

* * *

Ark walked out into the light, his visor darkening slightly as it adjusted the amount of light coming through, but he was able to get a sense of how disorientating it must be for the away teams who travelled here to take on Team Rampancy. Whoever had designed this place had earned their paycheck, he mused, as the stadium slowly grew quiet, the loud chattering of panic that had taken over, once armed soldiers bearing the emblem of the Crimson Sun had made their way into the stadium, dying down instantly.

_My reputation precedes me, _he noted wryly, momentarily considering whether or not to wave to the assembled crowd. _Evidently the UNSC had not been entirely successful in suppressing the video of our previous display._

His eyes scanned over the crowd, the hush reaming as he slowly turned the full three-hundred and sixty degrees, staring at each stand in turn. Behind him, Penn and Harper emerged from the tunnel, and Ark could sense the ripple of rage and restlessness that washed over the crowd. However, it seemed that he had judged them correctly. The armed men and women stationed at the various entrances and walkways were more than enough to deter any attempt at heroism from a member of the audience.

People were so damn predictable.

It had taken a lot of work to reach this point, earning the trust of the remnants of the URF and other such Insurrections, long crippled by the actions of the UNSC, but it had surprised Ark how many of them had survived in some shape or form, their leaders dead and their members scattered, but their various causes still burned deep, just waiting to be reforged into one whole, which Ark had done, labelling it: JUSTICE.

Pennsylvania had been only too happy to step aside and let Ark take the leading role, but Ark was never able to forget about the hostile presence of the former Freelancer, now bedecked in a bastardised version of his old armour and the Insurrectionist BEHEMOTH suits, of which they had managed to recover about a dozen, the first of which Harper had instantly claimed as his own.

Harper…Harper was a problem. While Ark knew that Penn would only move against him when he saw Ark as more of a liability than an asset, Harper was a true sociopath, and his whims changed like the weather. It had been Harper who had functioned as the intermediary between the remnants of the URF and the two Freelancers, convincing his own squad to join the cause, and through him they had managed to recruit many more, and more importantly, retrieve many of the assets that the URF had left behind.

In the months that had followed, Ark had made his own connections, recruited his own followers, teased more and more power his way, and it swiftly became evident that many of those who had flocked when Harper had called had done so not out of loyalty or respect, but out of fear of what would happen to them if they didn't.

When local Innie leaders had shown resistance, not wishing to align themselves with Ark and his ever-growing group of followers, he had taken particular care to ensure that either he or Penn led the movement against it, not Harper, determined to prevent the Lieutenant from gaining any further influence, forcing these pockets of resistance to make the decision between assimilation or annihilation. After Penn had physically snapped the leader of the first Insurrectionist movement that they had come across in two, most had chosen to assimilate.

Ark himself had taken particular care to ensure that he had come across as both fair and even-handed to the men and women that had joined his movement, determined to set himself in a positive contrast next to the maniacal and psychopathic Harper. He had chosen a few individuals to form part of his own specialised squad, under his command and his alone. Two, in particular, had come to prominence under his tutelage, and had become, essentially, the only people that he felt he could actually trust within the movement.

The first, Athena, had been amongst the first people to have joined the Crimson Sun, having been one of the soldiers who had fled with Harper's second, Falcon – another man that he had his reservations about, but beggars couldn't be choosers - when the war on Byzantium had gone south. It had been with a shock that he had recognised her, flashing back to the day when he had pulled a Magnum in Cal, ordering him to stand down.

* * *

_He and his squad - himself, California, Georgia and the Dakotas - had been searching a small, isolated village for URF Insurrectionists, after the Freelancers had put an attempted ambush to rout, when he had entered a small, unobtrusive building alone, their numbers already thin-spread enough without him requesting back-up for what looked like another dead-end. _

_He had no sooner entered, the door closing slowly behind him as he entered the darkened hovel, when a fist had lashed out at him, catching him on the side of the head with a ringing blow. He had staggered, almost dropping his shotgun, ducking before the next blow had landed, tripping his attacker up as their momentum caused them to pass by. _

_Straightening, he activated the flashlight feature on his helmet, illuminating the room, his shotgun primed to fire. Before him, lying on the ground and breathing heavily, was a young woman with long blond hair and sharp green eyes, her left arm tucked, obviously broken. Ark looked around the room and a dozen faces stared back at him, all sullenly clad in URF attire. What had caused him to pause, however, was not their numbers, or the dull hate in their eyes as they glared at him, but how young they all were, the young woman who had attacked him looking by far the oldest there, and she herself couldn't have been much over eighteen._

_The youngest soldier, at the far back, his puffy face and bloodshot eyes betraying the fact that he had recently been crying, couldn't have been more than fourteen, and looked the spitting image of how Ark himself had at that age. Ark had looked at each of them in turn, noticing the weariness on all of their faces, the injuries and blood-stained bandages that adorned the majority, and something stirred within him, an emotion that he had not felt in a long time._

_Pity._

_Raising a hand to his lips, or at least where his lips would have been, had his helmet not been in the way, he attached his shotgun to his back with his free hand, then slowly left the place, his eyes slightly moist beneath his helmet._

_Walking back into the sunlight, he had been greeted by the evidently worried form of North Dakota, who had promptly asked "Hey, is everything alright?", confused by the noises he had heard coming from within. _

_Ark had tensed imperceptibly, then nodded to his teammate, not quite able to meet his gaze, nodding._

"_Yeah, everything's fine."_

* * *

Athena had been the codename the woman had chosen, and Ark knew that she triumphantly crowed about managing to land a punch on him while nursing a broken arm to the other soldiers, but he forgave her this minor transgression, as Ark and Penn had quickly served to prove themselves to be untouchable in the field, and regularly tested themselves against their own recruits in simulated fights.

Hell, the Director had some good ideas. It gave them a chance to prove themselves superior to the men and women under them, and the quickest way to gain a man's respect was by not only beating him up, but also everyone he disliked, and doing so in such a comprehensive manner that no one felt too hard done by.

Athena had quickly proved herself and adept disciple, picking up everything that he imparted as fast as he could explain each separate piece of knowledge, and, other than York and Georgia, Ark hadn't yet come across a more accomplished hacker. He had given her more and more important roles up until their assassination of Colonel Grant, and it had been Athena that had managed the live-stream of the event.

Goliath had been the man assisting her, the second of the two, and had caught Ark's eye due to his immense size and impressive physical strength, reminding Ark of the first time he had seen Maine. Like the Freelancer, he wasn't much of a talker, but he had remained fiercely loyal to Ark ever since he had joined, and when a small group of dissatisfied Innies, seeking a means of gaining a pardon from the UNSC, had snuck into his quarters at night, intent on killing him, Goliath, the lone guard, killed all four of them before Ark had enough time to wake and register what was going on.

After that, he had rose in prominence through the ranks of the Crimson Sun, frequently sparing with Penn, whom the giant looked upon with something close to admiration, and perhaps closer to worship, but Ark knew that the Insurrectionists loyalty still lay with him and him only, and slept somewhat safer at night with Goliath as the head of his personal guard of sixteen.

A green light flashed in the top-left corner of his helmet's HUD, waking Ark from his reflections, the signal that Goliath and Athena had taken the aptly named control room, and were now in complete control of all the audio and video transmissions from this stadium. Hopefully, given that the UNSC had no vested interest in this event, we would be able to reach a wider audience this time round, Ark mused silently. After all, Grifball was the most popular sport in the universe. If they couldn't reach out here, then people just clearly didn't watch sports any more, and wouldn't that just be tragic?

The players on the field were clearly baffled by the current events, and out of the corner of his eye he noticed one of them shift uncomfortably, his fingers tightening around his gravity hammer, as if entertaining the notion of trying something, his eyes locked on the soldiers attempting to usher him off the pitch. He was clearly struggling with his indecision, but Ark thought it wise to step in, before a decision was reached. After all, a gravity hammer could do serious damage to a man, and the bullet-riddled corpse of a young Grifball player wouldn't do much to help the cause.

Ark turned to him and shook his head, gesturing for him to stand down. "Don't try to be a hero, kid, it's not what it's cracked up to be, trust me." He let out a mirthless chuckle as he finished, before looking back up into the kid's visor. "It's Rothe, right? Jackson Rothe? You're Rampancy's new Runner. You've got a bright future ahead of you, so don't throw it all away here and now. Just leave the field with the rest of your team, and you'll be alright, I promise."

The kid seemed to wrestle with himself for a moment, struggling to come to a decision, before finally looking back up to meet Ark's gaze once more. Ark was impressed with the restraint the guy managed to show, clearly furious, but intelligent enough to know that this was a battle that he couldn't win. "How do I know you're not just lying to me?" the kid asked, his voice only slightly below the level of aggression that Ark would have categorized as a snarl.

Ark shrugged. "You don't. But if I am lying to you, what do I have to gain from it? We have guns, you don't, and it's as simple as that. I could give the word right now, and you'd be dead before I uttered the final syllable. As you can probably notice, I'm going out of my way to _avoid _having to kill you, and to be honest, that's pretty damn nice of me, and I think that leads credence to the idea that, in fact, I don't _want _to kill you."

Rothe appeared to have trouble keeping up with Ark's logic, but eventually he inclined his head and walked away, his grav hammer dropping to the floor with a clang, allowing the Crimson Sun soldiers to escort him off, only Ark, Penn, Harper and a handful of Insurrectionists remaining on the field.

_Time to get to work._

He glanced back over at the crowd, his eyes searching for their target, already roughly knowing whereabouts he would find him, and knowing that the target himself would know exactly what was going on, given the fact that Ark had been kind enough to publish his list of targets during their last mission.

_There._

The man was palpably sweating, his eyes darting from left to right, searching for a way out, but only finding Crimson Sun soldiers guarding every possible exit. His eyes turned back and met Ark's own, and he paled as he realised the significance of this action. Ark entered the seat number into his helmet's HUD, and sent it to his men in the building, the ones nearest to the target starting when they realised that this was addressed to them. They forced their way through the seated people, grabbing the target between two of them and dragging him back out onto the stairwell.

The crowd began to murmur in indignation and fear at this, as the man was half-shoved, half-dragged down onto the field, visibly shaking in terror as he was thrown down before Ark, pulling himself to his knees and looking up into the pitiless features of Ark's visor, its smooth, burnished surface reflecting the man's own stricken face.

"What is the meaning of this?" the man spluttered weakly, his shoulders shaking. "I'm just a microbiologist, not a soldier!"

Ark stared at him for a moment, and frowned beneath his helmet, remembering the various images of the atrocities that this man had committed, flashing through his memory with a vivid rapidity. Visions of wasted children, malformed individuals, the diseased and dying in their hundreds and thousands surrounded by those already dead and hundreds of other images flashed by, causing his stomach to turn and his fists to clench.

"You are Dr Simon Eisenberg, are you not?" Ark asked calmly, emotionless as ever.

The man gave a slow nod, uncertainty reigning supreme over his decision making process, but clearly realising that Ark was simply asking a rhetorical question. "Yes…I…I am."

"The same Dr Simon Eisenberg responsible for the deaths of hundreds of thousands of innocent people on the Outer Colony planet of Kantyr, when you released a biological weapon in the midst of a small city, in order to test its effects on a large population of human beings?"

The doctor paled at these words, licking his lips nervously, not noticing how the crowd suddenly grew quiet and somewhat hostile at Ark's words. "That leak was an accident. We had a research facility on that planet, and the site was compromised. People died, yes, I admit it, but it _wasn't my fault_!"

Arkansas only shook his head slowly, and gestured to the large screens above them, normally used to show replays of events in the Grifball game, along with the current time and score, but now was running images of the victims of Eisenberg's work, and Ark could feel the crowd reacting with the same revulsion that he had when he had first seen them.

Ark didn't even reply to the doctor, retaining his stony demeanour, as the images continued to appear up on the screens, until at last they were replaced by a video of Dr Eisenberg and several other white-coated scientists. The crowd grew even quieter as the volume on the video was raised, one of Eisenberg's companions very audibly murmuring his doubts on the morality of testing their weapons on humans.

"**But sir, does the morality of this not concern you? Unleashing this virus on a human city could have disastrous effects. We simply cannot take this risk!"**

The tele-Eisenberg simply shot this man a look of withering scorn, and shook his head slowly, a hologram behind him displaying the city in question, with a glowing red dot pulsing in its centre. **"The UNSC have given us permission to go ahead. We cannot continue testing on isolated subjects if we are going to make use of this virus in the war. Losing a city is an acceptable loss in comparison to the loss of an army, should this virus prove to still affect humanity."**

"**Sir!"** the scientists turned to face the unseen speaker, his voice issuing from behind the cameraman. **"The device is in place, and our men on the ground are waiting for your order."**

The camera focused in on tele-Eisenberg's features, which tightened, his eyes narrowing. **"Activate it," **he ordered, and the video ended, leaving the stadium in utter silence.

Ark turned to the stricken scientist, and despite the fact that his face was hidden behind his burnished visor, the aura of scorn that he was exuding was easily detectable. "So," he began, his voice cold and emotionless. "The leak was an accident, right? Forgive me if I find this a little _difficult _to believe."

The doctor opened and closed his mouth weakly, but Ark had nothing more to say to him. He turned back to the crowd, where he knew the cameras would be following his every move, if Athena was doing her job, and he had a lot of faith in her. This would be their greatest triumph yet.

"This man, the one here before you all, is a war criminal, and a murderer. Your fear of the Covenant has allowed you to blind yourself to the harsh reality of the actions of the UNSC, which should be feared just as much. It is said that the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, and I have little doubt that this will be used in later years when the UNSC are finally brought to justice, to justify their actions."

He paused, and surveyed the crowd once more, looking to all four stands. "This man has committed atrocities against our race, and yet, he has been proclaimed a hero. _I _stand here before you today, and have been branded a terrorist and a traitor and a criminal, but _I _have not murdered hundreds of thousands, if not _millions_, of people! Let me ask you this, ladies and gentlemen: if _this_ is the price of survival in times of war, is it worth paying?"

He took a deep breath and turned back to the now weeping scientist, his frail shoulders shaking tremendously in between each sob. Placing his hands lightly on either side of Eisenberg's neck, Ark's voice changed, becoming almost kind and benevolent, losing all traces of the rage and hostility that had reverberated through the stadium only moments earlier.

"Dr Simon Eisenberg, you are here today to serve as a lesson to the UNSC, and any other faction which would attempt to justify mass-murder. We will _not _stand idly by while genocide is carried out. We will _not _forgive transgressions carried out in the name of 'the greater good'. We will not allow you to silence the few, to thread on the minority, to oppress and murder without cause."

Another pause and the silence grew within the stadium to unbearable levels, until, at last, Ark spoke up once more, and it was broken.

"We are the Galactic Army of the Crimson Sun, and a new day is dawning across the universe. We will achieve justice for the dead, protect the most vulnerable members of humanity, and speak up for those who have no voices. We stand in opposition, not for ourselves, but for justice, for honour and for the dead."

A breath was taken, and he could _feel _the cameras zooming in on him as he finished: "Fear us."

With that, his hands tightened around Eisenberg's neck, and before the doctor could utter his squawk of protest, Ark's hands squeezed around his throat, wrenching his head to the side with a sickening _snap, _and the stadium was silent as he released the doctor's body, which collapsed to the ground, a lifeless corpse.

Ark stood back, a feeling of grim satisfaction in his heart, tempered somewhat with sadness that accompanied every one of his kills, for even when the kill was justified, or necessary, taking a human life was something that left its mark on the soul. Only a true psychopath could kill and not allow it to affect him or her on some basic level. He was many things, and not all of them good, but each kill that he had carried out, even those committed in self-defence, had left a bitter taste in his mouth.

_One more than all of the others._

"ARK!" a voice bellowed from somewhere in the stadium, and Ark looked around, nonplussed, as the crowd began to stir restlessly at these words. He eyes followed these words to their source, and beneath his helmet his eyes widened slightly at this new revelation, his mouth curling in an unconscious sneer, the coincidence surprising him greatly, but it ultimately mattered little. His plans remained unchanged by this new development.

In the crowd, suddenly surrounded by Crimson Sun soldiers, were Carolina, York, Georgia, North, South, Florida and California. It was the latter who had screamed out Ark's name after he had executed the doctor, his face flushed with unrestrained rage, and Ark could tell that York and Carolina were attempting to restrain him, the wary looks that they were sending towards the Crimson Sun soldiers revealed their very real concerns at taking on this number of soldiers without their equipment, unarmed and unarmoured, perhaps explaining why they hadn't attempted to speak out until now, or to interfere in the proceedings.

_How the mighty have fallen._

"Ah," Ark murmured, his voice picked up by the speakers within his helmet and amplified so that all could hear. "It's a small universe, is it not, my old friends?"

"You bastard!" Cal screamed in return, trying to fight off Carolina and York, while the other Freelancers simply looked wary and uncertain, tensing as they sized up the Crimson Sun soldiers nearest to them, attempting to plan their course of action. "I'm going to kill you, you piece of shit! I'll gut you like the dog you are, traitor! I'll…I'll…"

Ark didn't give Cal the chance to finish uttering exactly what he'd do to him, knowing full well that Carolina and York wouldn't be able to restrain the infuriated Freelancer for long, and at that point the others would be forced to make their move on his own forces. The hero complex was a bitch, he had to admit. If only cowardice had been drilled into soldiers. It would have made things so much easier.

"No, Cal, you won't," he replied smoothly, yet firmly, his voice echoing throughout the stadium. He wasn't ready for a confrontation with Project Freelancer, not just yet, at least. Not that he doubted his soldiers' ability at handling them. The Freelancers were outnumbered, outgunned, and simply at the extreme disadvantage in this fight. However, he needed this to be a clean mission. If bodies started to pile up, which they surely would if it came to a fight between his forces and the Freelancers, it would make it harder for people to view the Crimson Sun as a force for justice.

"Lights out," he murmured, as the stadium was plunged into darkness, and Cal's screams of impotent rage rang out behind him as he made his way back through the tunnels, his forces following suit, their night-vision goggles activated. Penn and Harper walked next to him, neither entirely happy at having been side-lined for this event, their presence inherently hostile, but Ark stood firm, knowing that neither would hesitate to destroy him if he ever showed any sign of weakness. He led the way through the winding tunnels, the escape route clear in his head, knowing that Athena and Goliath would be present at the rendezvous point with their squads at the designated time, for he had trained them.

By the time power was restored, the Crimson Sun would be long gone. Until then, chaos reigned.


	10. Chapter 9: Message for Carolina

**(A/N) Hey guys, sorry about the slight delay with this one, just needed to edit some scenes for plot consistency, etc! Actually, this leads me nicely into a point that I would like to broach, which is that we, and by that I mean, the Freelancer Collaboration, are looking for an editor, or possibly editors, to go through submitted DocXs and basically just polish them up before publication, a job that I've done up to now but with Christmas examinations coming up, I really need to offload some work. So basically, I'm looking for some help, from people either already part of the collaboration or even others not, as of yet, involved. If anyone is interested, just PM me and I'll send you further information about what is involved. Of course, there's got to be some sort of selection process, so I'll have to take stock of your editing abilities, through some sort of test.**

**For further incentive (cos I _really _need some help here guys, this will come with moderator status. Basically, access to the Collab account, a say on who we pick when we're looking for new writers, etc).**

**By the way, did I mention that we'll be looking for new writers soon? (Am fully aware that I have) That's right guys, on the 25th of November, less than a week away, we'll be opening up our forum for applications for OCs, 479er, the Counselor and Agent Washington!**

**Also, we have a new blog set up, at thefreelancercollaboration dot blogspot dot com (obviously the "dot" should be . and remove the spaces). Headed by the amazing ann1795, it'll feature articles from members of the Freelancer Collaboration and its roleplay forum, concerning both the collab itself and their own fields of interest! Check it out! (A link can also be found on our profile for those having trouble finding it).**

**Anyways, back to the chapter at hand, featuring the first appearance of our new writer for Agent Carolina, replacing ParabolaOfMystery, RocketTortoise! He'll be taking on the character from here on out, so expect to see a lot more from him in the future!**

**Enjoy! (Phew, that was a long Author's note!)**

* * *

**Chapter Nine – Message for Carolina**

**Agent Carolina**

**Written by RocketTortoise**

* * *

"_Letting go doesn't mean that you don't care about someone anymore. It's just realizing that the only person you really have control over is yourself." _― Deborah Reber, Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul

* * *

Carolina had decided that she didn't like Grifball.

To be honest, she had been fairly indifferent to the sport itself, as, to her, it had always seemed like high-paced and adrenaline fuelled acts of random violence. However, she had quickly noticed the almost warlike tactics used by the Runners and the Defenders when the bomb was in their possession, and couldn't help but feel excitement whenever either team got close to scoring. Indeed, when Rampancy's Tank had hit Maverick's Hybrid so hard with his gravity hammer that the guy actually left a dent in the durasteel wall, Carolina had sat up and taken notice.

_I've got to get my hands on one of those one day, _she had mused, eyeing the Tank's gravity hammer with a new sense of respect toward the athletes.

What had really tipped Grifball over into the dislike-section had been the squad of Insurrectionist soldiers, publicly executed a man on the court, while Carolina and the rest of the Freelancers had been forced to stay in their seats, impotent without their weapons and armour, surrounded by armed enemies.

Outgunned and unarmoured, charging in to save the man would have been suicide, so the only thing the seven former Freelancers could do was watch, as Arkansas, their former teammate, now enemy, explained that the UNSC official, Dr Simon Eisenberg, had been in charge of creating a biological weapon aimed at killing the Covenant while leaving human soldiers unharmed. Of course, that hadn't been the reason why Ark had dragged him out there, revealing that the scientist's experiments had resulted in the deaths of over a million human settlers after a "containment leak", or, more correctly, UNSC approved weapons testing.

The Freelancer-turned-traitor had then killed Dr Eisenberg, much to the shock of the audience who had just come to watch some Grifball. And then, just to make the night that little bit more memorable, Pennsylvania had dared to show his face as well, after abandoning Project Freelancer and murdering a fellow agent.

As the pool of blood spread around Dr Eisenberg, Carolina's fists had clenched so tightly and she had ground her teeth with so much force that for a brief moment she had been worried that she would burst a blood vessel. There had been moments, before the execution, when she had appraised the nearest Innie, waiting for a moment to strike, but one look from York had gotten her to back down. How could he be worried about _her_ after everything that had just happened, after everything they had been forced to witness?

Now she had to sit through countless paramedics checking her over for shock, which soon proved to be pointless, a waste of both their time and her own. She had been top of the Leaderboard at Project Freelancer. She didn't go into shock, full stop. That had been bred out of her as a child. When she had finally been deemed to need no further attention by the paramedics, she had been taken aside and interviewed by local UNSC forces, which soon proved to be just as tiresome. Firstly, the soldiers whom she had to deal with were incomprehensibly incompetent. They weren't far above the level of the red and blue simulation troopers the Freelancers had used for training, and that, admittedly, was the reason why these soldiers were kept away from the front lines. They were asking all the wrong questions and Carolina, kicking into autopilot, began to advise them, helping them fill in the gaps that they hadn't even noticed were present, pointing out the things that they should be looking for, all with the slightly weary air of a woman addressing a group of people far beneath her.

She had gotten the sense that they hadn't liked her all that much.

Carolina told the UNSC soldiers exactly what what had happened when the soldiers had invaded the Grifball stadium and executed Dr Simon Eisenberg, sparing none of the details, other than the identities of the three ringleaders, knowing full-well that it just would have spawned more questions into her background, and she simply did not have that kind of time. Carolina sighed to herself, shaking her head. How had she ended up on the same side as these morons? If these were the kind of people tasked with finding Penn, Ark and the rest of their organisation, then the chances of stopping them were swiftly fading to zero.

Carolina could feel the frustration rising within her again. She should be the one tracking Ark's new Insurrection, not these idiots. The morons couldn't find a bowl of milk if they were sitting in it. Unfortunately, she and the rest of her team were to remain side-lined while the UNSC's worst investigators stumbled around playing Sherlock Holmes.

Eventually Detective Inspector Moron Number One let Carolina return to the rest of her team, telling her to be careful and asking her, on the off chance that she might later remember anything that could help them with their investigation, to call the authorities. He gave her a card displaying the number for the investigation's hotline, and when she flipped it over she realised that a second, handwritten number had been scrawled on the back. She looked up and the soldier gave her a sleazy smile and she literally felt vomit start rising from her stomach. She issued a death glare in his direction and left, rendezvousing with the rest of her team, throwing the card into a bin without a second thought.

All six of them had apparently already been released from their own interviews and turned to her when she approached. "Your interview took a while," North Dakota stated to Carolina, his voice tinged with curiosity. "They call you out first and yet you were last to come out."

"Were they giving you are hard time?" Florida asked sympathetically, his slightly bloodshot eyes and trembling fingers betraying how much he was craving another drink.

York just laughed. "Please, the Covenant and the Insurrection combined couldn't give our fearless leader reason to _blink_, let alone some dumb-ass mall cop who's finally been giving something interesting to do!"

"It was kind of weird though," Georgia muttered a little quietly, clearly troubled, and Carolina was pretty sure she knew why. Idiot still held out hopes that Ark could come back, as if the Director would even allow within a dozen miles of the MoI, well, at least while he was breathing.

Carolina noticed that California and South Dakota hung back, silent and grim-looking. Neither looked especially calm at the moment, and Carolina couldn't blame them; she wasn't in the best of moods either. "Let's just get out of here." It had been a long night and Carolina just wanted to put all this crap behind her. So much for York's idea that the game would provide the break they all needed…

As they walked through the streets towards their apartment block, Carolina scanned the faces of the others, trying to gauge their moods. Florida was, surprisingly, grim and quiet, a far cry from the cheerful, happy-go-lucky agent that she remembered from their time in Project Freelancer. Carolina had long wondered if that had really been how Florida actually felt or if the uncompromising cheerfulness was all just part of a façade for the sake of the others. Now, it seems, she had her answer.

If Florida looked worried, he couldn't hold a patch on North. The blond kept glancing back at his twin sister, who trailed behind with California, neither of them speaking or looking at each other. Georgia was unsurprisingly affected from the encounter with Arkansas. The two had been roommates aboard the _Mother of Invention,_ and after spending so much time with a person, and becoming as close as Ark and Georgia had been, Carolina couldn't imagine the pain that Georgia had felt at Ark's betrayal, knowing that he, of all people, should have seen it coming. Tonight, looking on helpless as that person executed a UNSC scientist in front of innocent civilians, Carolina had little doubt that all of Georgia's old doubts and self-disgust would be rising up once more. She would have to keep her eye on him.

South looked gloomy, a change from her normal mixture of petulance and anger, Carolina suspected that the same thoughts that were running through her own head were also going through South's. South was probably wishing that she could be in the field, chasing after Ark and Pennsylvania, just as Carolina was, as neither of them were suited to the life of a citizen, not in any shape or form. However, if South looked gloomy then California looked positively murderous.

The scarred man hadn't spoken a word since the threats he had issued against Ark after the execution, and when Florida had tried to cheer him up California had snapped off some choice insults, knowing exactly where to strike to make the older man wince and leave him be. Carolina didn't approve, but couldn't really blame him. California had grown especially close to Agent Michigan on the _Mother of Invention_ and Arkansas had killed her. It had been all that she and York could do to keep him from leaping to his feet and charging towards Ark once he appeared, an action that would have resulted in certain death, both for him, and for the rest of the group.

Personally, if she had the chance, Carolina would hang Ark and Pennsylvania to the aft of the _Mother of Invention_ by their intestines, as it jumped into slipspace. She couldn't really attribute the hate she felt towards Ark and Penn to personal reasons. While she had been roommates with Michigan on the _Mother of Invention_, the two hadn't become all that close, certainly nothing like Ark and Georgia had been, and while Carolina didn't doubt that Massachusetts genuinely cared about her teammates, including Carolina herself, she hadn't tried to get to know Massachusetts very well, apart from her skills and her contribution to the team. However, the two had been members of her team, and Carolina had been their leader. As the leader, she had been responsible for the well-being of her team and in that regard she had failed miserably. Carolina would not let the deaths of two of her teammates go unavenged. Ark and Pennsylvania wouldn't – couldn't – be allowed to get away with it.

Carolina growled to herself. How could she declare that Ark and Pennsylvania will be brought to justice when here she was, stuck on the side-lines while the UNSC's "finest" let the two run laps around them, and seemed no closer to catching them than they had been when Project Freelancer was shut down months back? She could feel the rage and frustration boiling away inside her in a way that she hadn't felt since the collapse of the project. Ever since that day, Carolina had been drifting along without a clear purpose, apart from looking after her team. There was nothing that she could do about Ark and Penn for the time being. Without Project Freelancer's resources, she was in no position to chase them across the galaxy, but that didn't stop her from wanting to, with every fibre of her being.

Really, Carolina didn't know what she would have done if she didn't have the others with her. She probably would have simply collapsed under the pressure of making some sense of her new life, a life without purpose or goals, a life without Project Freelancer. And that made her mad. She didn't like relying on the others to keep her sane. She didn't like needing the others to hold her up to prevent her legs collapsing under the pressure. That wasn't what a leader did. A leader inspires others to become stronger, to better themselves. And to inspire, a leader must be command the respect of her team, therefore she must be strong. And Carolina didn't feel all that strong at the moment.

She felt helpless.

She bit down the urge to scream, her fists clenching as the group made their way silently through the streets. She could _feel_ the Insurrection mocking her for being unable to stop them. Mocking her for allowing high-level morons to be the ones tasked with bringing them to justice, and avenging Mich and Massa's deaths. Mocking her for having fallen so low and feebly stirring in the pool of her own weakness. Mocking her for dragging her team down with her.

But how could she become strong again? How could she rise from this pit of pathetic self-pity she had sunk into, and regain the strength to be the best again? How had the Director not seen this coming?

"Home, sweet home," York muttered quietly by her shoulder. Carolina was shaken out of her self-pitying inner monologue and she looked up at their apartment building with a conflicting mixture of resentment and relief. York stopped at the front door and turned towards them, trying to smile, but failing. "Look at us. Someone needs to organise an orchestra of the galaxy's smallest violins and play depressing ballads while we cry ourselves to sleep! Bit of a step down for us, eh?"

Unsurprisingly, everyone in the group ignored him, barring Florida and North, the former giving York a pat on the back and the latter nodding his head in acknowledgement, but no one said anything in return.

The apartment building they stayed in wasn't exactly the flashiest. As York had once said, "Apparently going through hell and coming out the other side doesn't get you a decent paycheck." As soon as they reached the apartment, the seven men and women headed to their respective rooms, to get some rest after what had begun as a pleasant (perhaps not the best term to describe Grifball) night, but had descended into their collective worst nightmare by its end. So much for York's plans.

Carolina, unsurprisingly, ended up being unable to sleep. It was almost like the night still had one final sucker punch to deliver that it didn't want Carolina to miss out on. What was next? Perhaps a giant beast from deep underground will rise and lay waste to the city? Why not? It wouldn't be the most surprising thing to happen to her today.

She stared up into the darkness and listened to the silence, waiting for something to happen, feeling like she expected a squad of Covenant Elites to come storming out of the darkness and fill the silence with plasma fire and roars of war that deafened the ears. When she was met with nothing but the heavy breathing from Georgia, Carolina quickly decided that she needed some air.

Carolina rose from her bed silently and left the room. She exited the apartment and climbed the stairs to the roof, feeling tense and alert, adrenaline pumping through her veins for reasons that she couldn't identify. She hadn't wanted to take the elevator to the top floor, she needed to move around and feel her muscles work. When she reached her top she was suddenly assaulted by the chilling bite of the cold air. Carolina staggered to the rail at the edge of the rooftop, and clasped her hands around its cold metal surface. As the cold slowly took the edge away from her frustration, Carolina took several deep breaths then screamed out at the city, screamed out at the incompetent UNSC forces stumbling about after two of the most dangerous men in the galaxy, screamed out at the Insurrection and finally screamed at herself, for letting it get this far. Carolina didn't know what she could and should have done, but she was _damn _sure that she could have done more than she had.

Her mind flashed to Arkansas that day in the training room on the _Mother of Invention,_ when he had revealed to Carolina that he knew who she had been before Project Freelancer. It then flashed to the training fight that Carolina competed in against Pennsylvania, before the battle at Byzantium, in order to decide who would be Project Freelancer's Number One, and she remembered the agony when Pennsylvania cracked her spine over his knee. She could remember the pain of her vertebrae almost splitting under his brute strength. She remembered Arkansas screaming at the Director after he had fired the MoI's MAC on the city of Triestina. How different would the Director be in Ark's eyes to Dr Eisenberg? Would the Director be Ark's next target?

Carolina slid to the ground, exhaling heavily after that emotional out-pour. "Well that was attractive," a familiar voice stated, a slight smirk evident in the tone. Carolina looked up and saw York walking up to her. "I thought you'd come up here eventually. I've been waiting since everyone went into their rooms. Didn't think I'd be able to sleep."

Carolina didn't respond to York, not trusting her voice not to break after her recent bout of shouting. York gave up waiting for a reply, and sat down next to Carolina, leaning back against the rail. After a brief pause, he continued, "I don't know what you think of us, Carolina, or how you see us, but you're more than just a leader to us, _all_ of us. You're a friend," York hesitated before adding, "Well, maybe we should exclude South from that, but anyway, you should that we're here for you. We're not your subordinates anymore, you don't have to prove yourself to us. There isn't any Director to look down on you, no Leaderboard to rank us, we aren't Freelancers anymore. None of us are at the top of our game at the moment, not even Florida. What we don't need is a cold, emotionally dead machine standing apart from us. We need you back, as a friend, and a leader too. That is the only way we're ever going to get over this whole mess. You don't have to worry about Harper or Ark or Penn. There are other people out there more than capable of dealing with them. We've served our time. It's over for us."

Carolina scowled. From York's point of view, she knew that everything he had just said made perfect sense. Unfortunately, they were very different people. She couldn't just let things go like he could. "You don't get it, York. I was raised to be a soldier. I was raised to fight and kill and _die_, as a soldier. I don't know how to live a quiet life, get a normal job and settle down somewhere in the suburbs with two-point-four kids, a nice house and a 401k." She saw him open his mouth, about to interrupt, but she cut him off. "I've always been the best at everything. It's who I am. No matter what I do, I can't escape that. I'm a soldier, and not just a good one, but the very _best_. I can't say goodbye to that. It's all I've ever known."

"Carolina, you're wrong. No one is born to die as a soldier. Everyone has a chance to make their own choices in life, to choose the path they want to take. Look at me! Do you think I was raised to be a Freelancer? Just because your parents raised you to be a soldier, doesn't mean you have to die as one. There are a bunch of people downstairs who believe differently, who see something more in you than just a stone-cold killer," York paused, thinking momentarily. "Look at us right now. We gave up everything for that program, and how were we rewarded? We were pitted against each other, lied to, and eventually, look at what happened to Mich and Massa. That wasn't – isn't – fighting for something meaningful. That's collateral damage."

"So you're just going to let Michigan and Massachusetts die in vain?" Carolina felt her temper rise again.

"Yes, if it gives us a way out and a chance to do something meaningful with our lives. Do you think I like saying that? Do you really think that I don't want to see Ark and Penn dead? But I'm not going to see us die chasing after them, Carolina! I'm not going to see _you _die!"

"Enough, York," Carolina snapped, not willing to enter this area again, not after their last conversation. "You don't know what it feels like for me to watch someone die because _I _failed. Michigan and Massachusetts died because _I _failed. It was my job to protect the members of my team! And. I. Failed. Then I have to watch as the UNSC stumbles after their murderers and I can't do anything about it. It was our job to protect humanity! How can you watch a man die, and only worry about me?"

York stared at her for a long time, eyes blazing defiantly, "Because I…"

Carolina finally snapped. She didn't know what it was whether it was denial reacting with the emotions she had bottled up for so many years, or the emotions she had been steeling herself against all night. After everything that had happened, whatever her feelings for York were, they didn't mix well in that cocktail and she exploded, "_SHUT UP!_"

That single sentence stopped York in his tracks. His eyes opened wide, like a deer caught in headlights. She saw the pain behind those eyes, the doubt, the uncertainty, and above all, the unconditional love he felt for her, and she knew he always would. She couldn't stand it and broke eye contact, looking down at her feet. She rose, unsteadily, and fled from the rooftop before York could stop her. That is, if York tried to stop her. Carolina raced down the stairs with her room in mind as her destination, but only made it to the front door.

When she walked up to the door it opened from the inside, swinging away form her. Florida was standing there and almost bumped into Carolina. His mood seemed tired and sombre but when he saw Carolina he offered her a weak smile, his eyes regaining some of his old spark. How did he really feel?

"Oh there you are, Carolina! I was about to go looking for you since you weren't in your room. There's a call waiting for you," Florida's eyes fluttered subconsciously. "You'll never guess who it is."

Florida stepped back inside. Carolina was in too much of a state to make any deductions as to who the mystery caller could be, so she simply followed her older teammate inside. When he turned to enter his room, Carolina broke off and headed towards the video phone, which was fixed to the wall. She attempted to check the number of the caller but the caller I.D. had been hidden. She pressed the green button on the screen, accepting the call, and the screen sparked into life, revealing the last person that Carolina had expected to see, however tragic that might sound.

"Good evening, Agent Carolina," the former Director of Project Freelancer greeted in his southern accent. "It has been a while."

Carolina only nodded. Why was he calling? To catch up? Her birthday had been months back, and he had actually remembered it for once, so it couldn't have been that… The Director continued, "You should know that I am making this call from the _Mother of Invention,_ and that this is _not_ a social call," If the Director was back on the _Mother of Invention_ then… "The UNSC have finally reinstated Project Freelancer in light of recent events, one of which I have heard that you were present at, and I have been reinstated as its Director." Perhaps the former Director of Project Freelancer wasn't as 'former' as Carolina thought, with a wry smile. Apart from that though, Carolina didn't know how to react to the news. Her mind was still a little jumbled. "Prepare your team, agent. A Pelican is on route to your current location to pick you up. Welcome back to Project Freelancer"

Carolina felt her spirits lift and mind clear as new purpose filled her body and mind, with the chance to bring justice to Michigan and Massachusetts suddenly becoming possible once more. "Yes, sir." she replied, snapping off a crisp salute. The call ended and Carolina set off to wake the others and inform them of what was going on, a wide grin on her face for the first time in months.

York watched her, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed and his face a picture of sorrow, softly murmuring, "I hope you know I'll always follow you…"


	11. Chapter 10: Before CT

**(A/N) Hey guys, NicKenny here, with some big announcements coming your way! First of all, apologies for the delay between the last chapter and this one, we were held up a bit with deadline delays, but have decided to work around them. Secondly, this is a very big chapter for us, because it debuts the appearance of a very important character in the Red vs Blue mythos, Agent Connecticut! Written by LanaLlama, I hope you'll see her as everything you imagined, and we've got some big things planned for her, as I'm sure is no surprise! Watch this space!**

**Thirdly, and finally, I am proud to announce that we are now officially open to applications for the second half of Phase Two: Betrayal, looking for writers interested in writing for Freelancer OCs, the Counselor, 479er and Agent Washington. For those who wish to do so, head on over to our Forum, under Misc and Red vs Blue, entitled The Freelancer Collaboration. There, you must fill out an Author Application form (takes about five minutes), and afterwards, depending on what character you're interested in, fill out the relevant Character Application form, all of which are pinned topics on our forum. If you struggle with any of these steps, or just are looking for more information, PM this account and I'll get back to you as soon as I can! Applications will be open until the morning of January 1st, 2014, with the accepted authors being announced later that day.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Ten – Before C.T.**

**Agent Connecticut**

**Written by LanaLlama**

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"_Surely only boring people went in for conversations consisting of questions and answers. The art of true conversation consisted in the play of minds." - _Ved Mehta

* * *

"The boss wants to see you." The brown haired girl lifted her eyes from the book in her hands to glance at the source of the voice. She sighed, her brown eyes meeting his green ones before flickering back to the book that she was clutching and back to him once more. She tugged the strip of tissue paper free of the pages and placed it as a marker of where she was before shutting it and standing from her seat, leaving behind a half-full mug of steaming tea.

"What does he want?" She hugged her book to her chest as they walked down the corridors, her short legs struggling to keep up with his long stride.

"Uh, a new mission, I think. Mr Rhee mentioned something about long-term infiltration as I left. It sounds big."

"Oh." She took in this news as they arrived outside the door, the girl ducking behind her brown hair as Brandon knocked and stepped back.

"I'll just make sure no one steals your tea, okay?" He walked backwards as he spoke, and with a wink turned disappeared down the corridor they had just come from. She couldn't help but smile at that, although this was immediately wiped from her face as the next moment the voice on the other side called out, granting her entry, the door _whooshing _open before her.

She stepped inside the neat office, which she had never been in before, which is why her brown eyes rapidly scanned everything within the room, from the leather seats and fancy glass table - obviously meant for important guests - to the beautifully carved wooden desk that made the brunette pine for her home.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" She was familiar with the rules, and while she didn't like them, she had to abide by them for now. One hand gripped her book firmly, as though the bald man behind the desk might attempt to steal it from her.

She stood a few feet from his desk, eyes fixed intently on her superior and curiosity shaping her face. Eventually Mr Rhee drew his eyes away from the screen he was looking at and up to her, seeming to be almost taken aback by her appearance. A cigar hung loosely in his mouth as his eyes looked her up and down appraisingly. She shuffled, fully aware of his gaze and not used to being looked at in such a way; she tilted her head subtly to the side so that her hair fell about her round face and would shield her from Mr Rhee's gaze.

"I have an assignment for you, Agent Connecticut." He picked up the thick stick and dabbed it in a wooden bowl, extinguishing the few embers that burned at its end.

"Sir," she began, somewhat confused, her brow furrowing, "My name is…"

"I'm well aware of what your name is. God knows I've spent long enough reading over your file, but you're to have to get used to that title if you are to succeed." His words were met with a frown and drawn eyebrows that displayed her confusion. She could tell that he was irritated by her slow uptake, but really, she hadn't been told anything, what did he expect?

"Such meek behaviour won't be tolerated either." Her brown eyes blinked at him from behind similarly coloured hair. "If you want to survive you'll have to grow plenty of backbone."

"What exactly am I to be doing?" Her shoulders straightened out and a slight hint irritation could be heard in her otherwise gentle voice. He was being so vague about her mission, and she was eager enough to learn what was going to get her out of this hell-hole.

"There was a project established by the UNSC about a year ago, but given its own autonomy and funding, essentially free of UNSC supervision. You may have heard brief mentions of it at some point - Project Freelancer?" He said the title as a question, his voice framing the word with an air of distaste and he actually awaited an answer from her.

"It has been mentioned in a few reports." She nodded for emphasis, as quite often her soft voice wasn't always enough for some people. In the military, you were only respected if you spoke loudly and affirmatively. She had settled for gaining respect through her own abilities, and, up until this point, she had been beginning to feel that it had been a wasted effort.

"You're aware of their goals?" Mr Rhee glanced down to a few papers on his desk and seemed to consider them, before glancing back up at her with an air of interest.

"Yes sir, they were Special Operations unit established to combat the Covenant. They're pretty admirable, and full of talented agents, from what I've heard." She didn't like looking at the shining skin of her superiors bald head, which is why the eyes of the soon-to-be Agent Connecticut moved down to trace the patterns of the carpet on which she stood. The next moment she glanced back up at her superior as realization hit her. "Are- Are you asking me to join them, sir?"

She wasn't sure how she should feel if this were the case. Those soldiers were dubbed as "the best of the best". She certainly didn't qualify to even be in the best, let alone the best of the best…Did she even qualify as a soldier when most of her skill lay with combat knives and computers?

"In a manner of speaking. Lately, our division, among others, have found some of their actions and behaviour to be…questionable. Unfortunately our superiors within the UNSC refuse to see things our way, and so _we_ are forced to take action, if we are to find the answers we require. You may be aware that they were shut down, after two of their agents went rogue."

He paused, and she nodded an affirmative. "Excellent. Well, they have since been re-established, and are now looking for new agents, and so here we are." She blinked again as Mr Rhee looked back at her, pulling up a large file on his holo-drive, and she stared into a picture of her own face as her file opened up before her. "Your file is exemplary, both in the field and out of it, and we need someone who won't get caught. We've explored all of our options, and _you _are the one who appears to be best suited for this task. Your psych evaluations speak of an almost crippling under confidence, but I have faith that this won't affect the way in which you carry out this mission?" This was said as a question, her superior's voice laced with a very palpable threat.

"Are you up to the challenge?"

That was a question she truly had to consider. They were asking her to spy on another project? What would happen if she were caught? ...No, knew that they wouldn't be able to trace the leaks back to her. Even with all of her faults, she had yet to come across a better hacker than herself. It was her one redeeming quality. The one thing that had made her useful to Charon.

"What exactly have they been doing that warrants you sending someone to spy on them?" There was no way this girl planned to go in blind. There were ethics involved, and she wasn't going to enter this war, alone and uninformed, when she didn't even have a gun.

"Spy is such a crude term, just think of it as a reconnaissance mission." Oh, the politicians must have so much fun, playing with words, while others took care of their mess. Her brown eyes rolled towards the ceiling.

"Fine, why, then, am I being sent on a reconnaissance mission? What have they done to deserve to be placed underneath observation?" He was equally exasperated by the brunette's questioning, not used to the level of insubordination that she was presenting.

"Well, what happened a few months ago was enough to raise our suspicions. Two of Directr Church's agents went rogue and killed two of the other Freelancers in their escape, along with countless numbers of personnel, rescuing a war criminal as they fled. Along with that, we have recently received reports of their using advanced equipment remarkably similar to that which ONI reported missing some few years back-"

A knock interrupted Mr Rhee's words and had both pairs of eyes turning to the door.

"Enter," he called out, knowing that whatever it must be had to be important, given that this briefing in itself had warranted Charon personnel receiving orders to turn away all but a handful of individuals.

"Sir, the Counselor is becoming pretty impatient." The intruder didn't wait one second longer after bursting through the door to give Mr Rhee the information he had come to deliver.

"Ah, Mr Moore, you've arrived!" Mr Rhee's posture sharpened immediately, and he jumped from his seat and snapped off a clumsy salute, betraying his civilian nature.

"So, this is the agent that we're sending?" The man sported a small mohawk, and didn't look much older than the girl herself; but she immediately recognised him. Of course, there were few soldiers within Charon that wouldn't have. The face of your leader tended to be one you memorised. She briefly wondered how he had risen to such a high-position, given his relative youth, when there must have been others, older and more experienced, vying for the job. His battle prowess, perhaps?

He didn't waste moment before getting down to business. When Mr Rhee nodded affirmatively he turned back to her, looking over her appearance just as the balding man had done, minutes ago. "Damnit Seb, I gave you a relatively simple task, and _this_ is the best you can come up with? We need someone who's able to fit in with super-soldiers, not girl scouts."

"Mr Moore, I am very confident in my choice, she will make an excellent agent." There was a small degree of eye-rolling from the leader, who moved to stand directly before the new Agent Connecticut.

"She doesn't look the part though, not at all. Have you seen any of the agents the Director has recruited in the past? They're all tough, and terrifying, and she's…not." Oh, let him think that; it wasn't like she hadn't heard it all before. It was a good thing - it led people to underestimate her. That was generally the last mistake they ever made.

"Oh, and I suppose you're so tough because you've got your mohawk and that deep voice? Forgive me sir, but didn't the biker craze die out like, three centuries ago?" She had to defend herself in some way, right? So why not do so with her favourite tool; words?

"Agent Connecticut, this is Joshua Moore, your superior officer and _head _of Charon." These words were accompanied by a very pointed look that warned her to keep her mouth shut, and, as much as she hated it, she complied, accepting the rebuke. "You are to report directly to him with any and all information that you can gather on Project Freelancer, that could be used to discredit Director Church or any of his staff."

"A small state for a small girl," Joshua muttered. Connecticut snapped her eyes to him, glaring, and to her surprise he recoiled slightly, looking away. "I mean…congratulations! You're about to become a super-soldier, provided you survive past the first week, which would surprise me, given the history of Project Freelancer up to this point."

"Mr Moore, you're being unreasonable." Rhee finally leapt to the girls defence, though his back was turned as he returned to his desk, bringing the conversation to a close.

Moore ignored his words, and gave a dismissive snort, changing the topic of conversation. "Like I said, the Counselor is getting pretty impatient. She and I can talk about communications later, we need to introduce her before he begins to get suspicious."

"The same goes for any questions you may have for me, though I'm afraid you'll probably only have a few hours. The Counselor is here for _you_, after all." Rhee reclined in his chair and returned the cigar to his lips, lighting it once more. This was obviously their cue to leave the office.

An irritated sigh left Josh's lips and he left the room with long strides as, once again, the small brunette struggled to keep up with a taller companion.

"I guess I should show you where he's waiting."

"No shit." The words were automatic. Did she really have to work with this guy for months, or possibly years? He seemed to have had a problem with her before she had even opened her mouth. To be fair, she would admit that she didn't look the part of a super-soldier, but wasn't that the whole point? She would have to stay out of the lime-light and be as discreet as possible, if she was ever to hope to find anything worthwhile.

"You should watch your mouth," Moore replied curtly, glancing over at her. "I could pull you off this mission right now and have you sent home, but I trust Mr Rhee's opinion enough to give you a shot." His face became fixed into a scowl as he said this, and his strides seemed to lengthen out of spite and irritation.

Their journey down the twisting halls was accompanied by silence, though neither of them could help but sneak glances at the other when they thought they wasn't looking. Honestly, in…Connecticut's opinion – she'd have to get used to that name, somehow - Joshua seemed like the stereotypical douche-bag you got in movies that beat his girl-friend and sent her running into the arms of another man…Though he could have done with a piercing and maybe a tattoo somewhere. Who would have thought such Neanderthals still lived in this day and age. He probably thought axes were the pinnacle of masculinity, and cut his own firewood.

"You know," he began, and she started out of what must have seemed like nowhere. "At some point you'll have to talk, given that you are meant to report your findings to me."

"I'll talk when you have something constructive to say," she shot back, frowning, knowing full well that it wasn't advisable to talk to a superior in such a way, yet she'd be _damned _if she'd take his criticism meekly.

"Maybe I will when you shape up and start looking like a soldier."

"What the hell do you want me to do? Find some sort of chemical solution to make me grow a foot, and shave off my hair?" She still clutched her book in one hand. Maybe bringing it along hadn't been such a good idea, now that she thought about it. She should have left it with Brandon.

"I'm not so sure about the first, but the second you can definitely do." He spared her a brief glance, as if he were checking that the shaved look would suit her. "Long hair is only a drawback in the field."

"No dice, I like my hair the way it is!"

"You're the one that suggested it! You know, I could probably make that an order though." It was enough to shut her up until they reached a meeting room. There were dozens of these throughout the compound that served as Charon's main base, nicknamed Longshore by the inhabitants, given that it was built along the coastline. It had seemed to her, at one point, that meetings were all that ever happened in this god-forsaken building, which had led her wondering why she had ever signed up in the first place. Sure the peace and quiet was nice, but all the paper work and tea and coffee got tedious quickly.

Maybe this mission would be a good thing for her.

"Just come and find me when you're done. I won't go too far." Joshua turned on his tail and left her alone to enter the room, barring the black man sitting at the table across from her, dressed in a smart black suit, a warm smile on his face.

"Sir?" They had called him 'The Counselor', but wasn't that a position, or a job title? This man had to have a name, right?

"Ah, hello." His voice was so soft, and his eyes seemed determined to stare into her soul. Nevertheless, she shook his hand when he offered it, shaking it warmly, and then took the seat across from he as he sat back down. "I'm here, as I am sure your superiors have informed you, as a representative from Project Freelancer. You may refer to me as the Counselor."

_Oh damn, this place takes away people's _identities_._

"I'm sure you're aware as to why I am here."

"It was mentioned." She nodded, wondering just how they had managed to get _her, _of all people, into such an elite program, when she was just there to spy on them.

"You know about our project?" His hands moved over papers that covered the table between them until he reached a small folder that he picked up, with a slight smile, and flicked open.

"Only a little bit," she replied, shaking her head in an attempt to reaffirm the lie. She wanted to hear, from him, what the project's goal was. That was the first step to research, right? Multiple sources and opinions. "I've never had access to that kind of clearance, and, up here, you don't really hear much about experimental programmes."

His face seemed to fall somewhat, although it was hard to tell when his eyes and lips were nearly as dark as his skin.

"That won't be problematic at all." His face remained passive and blank. She would have to look into this man later on when she reached…wherever it was that Freelancer Project resided. Something about him seemed…_off_ to her. "From what I've read in your file, it wouldn't have been a problem for you to find out yourself, had you wanted to."

So that's what he was reading.

"That is true," she conceded grudgingly. "But I'm not really in the business of violating UNSC protocols, sir."

True enough, even if it didn't reflect on her purposes of joining the project.

"Well, it's a good thing you're on _our_ side, then," the Counselor noted weakly. "Skills such as yours could be dangerous if they possessed by the wrong people."

It troubled her that he was describing exactly what would happen upon accepting her into the project.

Her eyes flickered to the papers, trying to make sense of why he would need so many, and whether or not would she have to sign something? Maybe one that handed her soul over. After all, in this day and age, nobody used paper anymore. The world had gone digital a long time ago.

"We allow all of our agents a chance to…start anew." His tone was still so gentle, and he seemed to be very selective about his words. "We give them new identities, and keep their dossiers tucked away, where no one will find them. Does this appeal to you?"

She almost wanted to laugh at how sincere he was with his question. Who would pass up a chance to start their lives over completely? If such a person existed, she certainly wasn't one of them! She had made her fair share of mistakes, just like everyone else, and now she could be anyone, and no one would question who she had been.

"It really does." She had to appear eager about this, right? A little smile took over her lips, just to prove the point.

"To create a sense of…camaraderie, we name each of our agents after a state." It was only here that Connecticut made sense. "Unfortunately, your name has already been assigned to you. The Director has decided that, from this point on, you will be known as Agent Connecticut, should you choose to join us. I think this particular state is…fitting." He too took in Connecticut's small stature and came to the same judgement as Moore and Seb Rhee had before.

"It would be a privilege, sir." She met his gaze and did her best to inflect her words with sincerity. At the same time, she felt a twinge of worry that this was all part of some elaborate act by Project Freelancer, and that she would be detained the second she set foot in their headquarters, wherever that was. "If you don't mind me asking, sir, where will I be based while I serve in Project Freelancer?"

The Counselor's smile grew wry, and he seemed genuinely pleased that he was the one to divulge this information, as though it gave him a sense of importance and justification.

"We work from a Paris-class frigate, known as the _Mother of Invention_. We find that the portability and speed which this offers us to be vital for our work, which relies on speed, stealth and success."

"And what will these missions entail?"

"They vary, depending on who needs our help. As the name suggests, we are more of a freelance group and are not strictly affiliated with the UNSC. The goal of the project, as I am sure you have heard, is to create a group of soldiers that will advance us towards the end of this war."

As he spoke the Counselor's hands moved and he began to gather up the papers he had set out on the table, tucking them all neatly together. It looked like she wasn't going to be signing away her soul just yet.

"We shall arrange transport for you shortly. Expect a Pelican to arrive sometime tomorrow morning. I recommend you pack and say your goodbyes, because it may be a long time before you see any of your colleagues again. Welcome to Project Freelancer, Agent Connecticut."

* * *

It wasn't long after she had returned to her room, when she heard a knock behind her that made Connecticut drop the shirt she had been folding. She had noted, with some sense of satisfaction, tinged with regret, that she practically lived out of a trunk anyway, and would probably require a new uniform when she arrived, so she could survive with only a backpack of essentials. It was her books that were posing a problem, which she planned to put off until the end.

"Come in!" she yelled over her shoulder before returning to the task at hand, her concentration firmly focused on negotiating this game of clothing Tetris.

"So, you're actually leaving?" Brandon's voice sounded behind her, leading Connecticut to abandon the shirt and turn to face her comrade with an apologetic nod. He held two steaming cups of tea in either hand and wore a sad puppy dog face in place of his usual smile.

"Sadly, yes." He handed one cup over, which she gladly took off him.

"I couldn't keep it warm, so I made you another." If there was one thing she would actually miss, it would be the black haired, whiny man before her. The one who had made her tea every single one of their few days off. "Reckon you can fit me in there?" He nodded towards her backpack with a cheeky grin.

"I am _not_ carrying you." Setting the cup down so that the tea could cool, she turned back to the pile of shirts that she had flung on the bed, still uncertain as to which ones she would take with her. Her hands moved automatically and she attempted to fold them again, this time with slightly more luck and relatively good results. They were rolled and shoved in neatly into the backpack, along with some pairs of pants and various other clothes. Not many. Hopefully she would get something decent on board the ship. After all, military life was functional, not fashionable, she noted wryly, smiling slightly to herself.

Brandon watched her over the rim of his own mug from his position on the floor, back against the wall. "Looks like you can't take much. How are you gonna choose which books to take?"

Oh, he knew her too well.

"I don't know." Connecticut's voice was strained, the decision, or rather, indecision, pained her and she wished that there was a way she could take them all. "I hope they have a library out there, even if it is just full of field manuals."

"Pff. I'd love to see your face when you find out that they don't have one." That earned him a small kick aimed his way, catching him on the shin. They soon fell into silence, each nursing their mugs of tea, sat on the floor. It was a comfortable silence that would suffice for their farewells. Neither of them had ever been much good at saying goodbye. When they were both done sipping the hot drinks and only the dregs were left, he gathered their mugs, pulled the brunette into a hug and left, whistling quietly to himself as he walked away.

It took her a while to sort through her books, but she eventually decided on three to bring with her. Two she could never get tired of reading, and one that she had yet to read. They were all old classics, but she loved them and could never bear to part with them. They were what got her through military school when nothing else could, and she could always trust them to be there, as long as she made sure she brought them where ever life took her.

And life, it seemed, had decided to take her to Project Freelancer.


	12. Chapter 11: You Never Get Away

**(A/N) Hey guys, sorry about the huge delays of late, were having problems with some people getting chapters in, so bear with us as I hunt them down and badger them about it! However, we do have one here for you, written by our new Wyoming writer, Xehanorto, who'll be filling in some very big shoes in Phase Two: Betrayal (mine!). ;) Hope you all enjoy his first chapter, because you'll be seeing more of them in the future! Once again, I would like to remind people that we're still looking for new writers, so if you're interested in taking part in the second half of this fic, either send me a PM or head on over to our forum and apply! Just remember, applications shut on January 1st, 2014, so make sure you've done so before then!**

**Enjoy!**

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**Chapter Eleven - You Never Get Away**

**Agent Wyoming**

**Written by Xehanorto**

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_"Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts." _― Winston Churchill

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Wyoming - no, now he was Reginald again, he'd better start getting used to that name - had decided to pay his respects to his fallen comrades when the project had been put on hold. Doing his best to remain inconspicuous and under the radar, he made his way to some backwater town in Australia to pay his respects for Massa. Thankfully, both her and Mich's personal information had been made available after their deaths, which had made things much easier on him.

The experience of mourning a teammate was new to him. None of his mates before the project had ever gotten themselves killed, or if they did, there was little time to mourn over their departure. They had been of the UNSCs best ODST teams regarding recon missions, prized for their long-range abilities in a battle scenario, serving with collective distinctions against the Insurrectionists on Sansar. Rarely missed, and even more rarely did they lose one of their own. Wyoming had been the best of the lot, and that was what had attracted the Director's attention to him. Wyoming closed his eyes as he thought back to a simpler time, a time when he wasn't feeling an overwhelming need for revenge, and an even more consuming sense of guilt. Back to when the ache of loss did not afflict him, not like it did these days.

* * *

_Reggie was sitting at an improvised campsite, consisting of some old wreckage that he and the rest of his team had found about three or four miles from their current target. It wasn't much, but it was adequate enough, given the current weather. Most of his squad were passing the time with idle conversation, anything to avoid thinking of the mission ahead of them, except for one chap._

_"You know we're _not_ blood-sucking aliens, right kid? You can talk to us, unless you're a… ya know, mute."_

_Reginald glanced over at Bucky. He chuckled for a moment at his poor sense of humor, and his gaze had moved over to their recent addition, Samuel, when he started to laugh, quietly, restrained, but still filled with mirth._

_He was curious to why they had received a new addition, since the squad had suffered no casualties over the past few months, and the only other reason for a new addition was if someone had finally been able to get out of the army, requiring a replacement. And he was pretty sure he hadn't been invited to any retirement parties lately._

_"You know… other than the mute thing, that wasn't too bad, mate. Perhaps you'll grow a sense of humour after all! I'm just thankful that you've confirmed we're _not _blood-sucking aliens, because I saw you with that girl, pretty redheaded little thing, last time we were on shore leave, and vampirism is too kind a word for what you were up to!"_

_That got the entire squad laughing. Reggie chuckled while poking at the fire with a piece of rusted piping as the sun began to set. Steve was the next one to speak up, sitting across from Wyoming, an appraising look on his face as he looked their new addition up and down._

_"So, new guy… wow, that feels a bit odd on the tongue. Not every day we get a new guy. What's your deal?"_

_Samuel's features set into an expression of irritation, before smoothing and he sighed. "Well, I've only been in service for a couple of years. The second I turned eighteen, I joined the UNSC, just wanting to make something of my life…"_

_"What, did you have a death wish?"_

_Samuel shook his head as he stared into the fire. "No, I wanted something stable. I never had that growing up, so I thought that by joining the UNSC, I could get that. Unfortunately, they decided that stability wasn't for me, and moved me on. Think they meant well, telling me that I was 'underutilised' in my current position, but I sure as hell didn't see it that way."_

_Reggie chuckled a bit as he leaned back against an upright sheet of corrugated iron. Parts of it rang true to his own history, he noted, smiling. The history of most of his squad, truth be told._

_"Well, in the three years I've been in service, this is my fifth troop assignment. The longest I've been in the same squad is seven months, and that was with my first squad. Still, I guess could be worse. Don't know how, but… if things get any worse somehow, at least I'll know."_

_The mood instantly died among the camp as Samuel finished his tale, and Reggie couldn't help but let a small frown appear on his face. It wasn't often that happened either; it was rather difficult to put him in bad mood. He was the first one to try and lighten things a bit, breaking the silence that had followed with a smile and his bright, cheery voice._

_"Look Samuel, this squad has been one unit, one family for a long time now. Now, I don't know how long you'll be here, but I'll make sure that if you get transferred, we'll keep in touch. After all, we are mates now, and mates stick together."_

* * *

Reginald sighed as he took another sip of his drink. A few months later, the chap had gotten himself transferred and he hadn't heard much from him after that, his promise proving impossible to keep, and that had been one of the first things that had begun Reginald's transformation from unshakeable optimist to...well, Wyoming. It hadn't been the first time a team member had been lost, but it had struck him hard, never the less.. Massa, on the other hand…she was one of the few that he'd never be able to get back. There was nothing that he wanted to do more than mourn her death, to gain some closure over it, but the entire concept was foreign to him and he...he just felt _lost._

He had never had the time to mourn for a comrade, as those that he had lost and had grown close enough to miss, and there were precious few of them, had fallen in the field, either at Covenant or Insurrectionist hands, and the mission held his thoughts, not his friends. What made it all worse though, was that he had been decommissioned, ordered to sit tight while Project Freelancer were investigated, while Ark and Penn ran free. The UNSC was bloody mad for doing this, especially with this new Insurrectionist Group taking out high-ranking members. He might have been forced out of Project Freelancer, but he still had some friends in the UNSC, who kept him up to date with the news, and it seemed to him that they needed Project Freelancer now more than ever.

He shook his head as he sat down in the back of a bar, where, for the most part, he went unnoticed. It wasn't like one of the pubs back on his own turf, but it was the closest that he could get to in this town. The town itself seemed rather nice, an almost rustic quality to it, but the fact that Massa would never see it again… something about that caused anger to build up inside him.

Perhaps this was what Maine felt like all the time, always angry, always wanting to pound someone into the dust. But neither he nor Wyoming would be likely to get a chance to take Ark or Penn down, given the project's investigation. No, some ODST out there would probably get the honor of killing those two traitors. Wyoming would have to settle on buying that man a drink.

He sighed again and finished off his second glass of beer, setting it back on the table. He had been at war too long, civilian life was a foreign thing to him, and he found the transition to be more difficult than he thought it would be. When he slept, every loud noise outside, every car alarm going off in the distance, every shout or cry or crash woke him up, his finely tuned senses still programmed into the life-and-death reality of war. And now it seemed that, for him at least, the fight was over.

The worst part of this was that he had no real family or normal life to go back to. In a sense, he had become married to the military, though he had known this was to be a possibility from the beginning. Not being on the front lines, constantly waiting for the next play to be made, was nerve-wracking. At least in the military you generally knew what expect, both from your allies and your enemies. War never changes. The world outside it, however, had.

If only York or Florida were here with him right now. Then again, perhaps it was his fault, leaving without so much as a goodbye. He had held the slightest shard of hope that another of his former teammates would make their own pilgrimage here, but they hadn't, and he had no means of contacting them. Still, he couldn't blame either of them for not coming. They had their own lives to lead, and where no doubt dealing with their pain in the best way that they knew how, doing their best to put their pasts behind them. The best escape from pain was to accept it and move on. He just wished that he could.

Unfortunately, when you've sent months in the company of a small group of people, its funny how many of their idiosyncrasies you pick up on, and only remember and miss when they're no longer around. Massa had been one of the good ones; not just a soldier, but also a...a friend. It had been strange for him, at first, to find someone genuinely worried for his welfare. Even when he had been an ODST, the others only cared whether or not you could keep up and get the job done, they hadn't _worried _about him. There was no use, though, in dwelling on the past, as it would only make his quest for closure all that bit more difficult.

Suddenly the bar went quiet, and he looked up from his beer, wondering what had caused the sudden silence. A glance towards the door answered his question. Seems like the Director had finally escaped out of that mess called politics.

The Director immediately looked at him, recognition flashing in his eyes, and Wyoming swore under his breath, pointedly looking away, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. Ignoring his open hostility, the Director made his way over to the former agent, pulling up a chair and sitting across from him.

"Wyoming," the Director began, fingers steepled, looking at him sternly. Serious, as ever. Seems some things never change, even if everything else had.

"What can I do for you today, Director?" he relied sardonically, his moustache bristling.

"You are probably not aware of this, but the UNSC has reinstated me as the head of Project Freelancer, and cleared the project to resume operations immediately," he eplied, stunning the man across from him. "It appears that we are several months behind our enemies, and must do everything within our ability to regain the advantage. Of course, we're looking to recruit our former agents, which is what brings me here today. We've been keeping tabs on all of you, ever since the project was closed down. It didn't take long to find you."

So they had realized their folly after all? Still...peacetime had a certain appeal, even if it wasn't true peace. Perhaps it was time to get out of this business after all? A couple of minutes ago, Wyoming had been thinking of the past, unhappy with civilian life, and now that it was about to be taken away from him, he realised that maybe, just maybe, it wasn't as bad as he had thought it to be."

"Director, I will be rather frank with you. I want to stay out of the business. I've seen some of the few people that I've cared about die, and I'm not sure I'm ready to risk going through that again. We've all lost a lot, through Project Freelancer, and I don't think you have any right to ask me to give anything more. I don't want to end up like Florida, spending my whole life fighting other men's wars. I hate Ark and Penn for what they've done, but I don't need revenge. I need to let go."

The Director only chuckled at his reply, as though he had predicted the Brit's response. Reginald frowned at this, slightly unnerved, when the Director spoke up. "That is most unfortunate. I suppose I will have to make my proposition to an agent more...suited for the task ahead. Alaska, perhaps, will be more open to what I had in mind for you."

Reginald raised an eyebrow at this, his curiosity having been piqued just that little bit. Carolina had always been the Director's go-to agent for anything worth doing, so what could he be thinking of proposing? Perhaps the tide was changing.

"And what task would that be?"

The Director smiled in reply, and both of them knew that Reginald was hooked now. Curiosity had always been one of his main vices, and it looked like it would prove to be so yet again.

"The UNSC have ordered us to take down the new Insurrectionist threat that call themselves the Crimson Sun. I want you to lead the team that will do so."

Reginald felt a smirk slip onto his face as he heard this, images of himself pulling the trigger on Ark and Penn flashing through his mind. Though questions were being raised in his head, there was one that he needed clarity on, above all the others. "Why not go with Carolina? She's our Number One, right? Why are you looking to delegate this to someone else?

The Director shook his head wearily, almost as though he was disappointed with Wyoming's questioning. "Agent Carolina is a great asset, and an incredible agent. Unfortunately, she is also too emphatic, a trait that I fear may prevent her from delivering the final blow, when it is needed. I need someone who can perform without letting their emotions cloud their judgment. Someone who will do what needs to be done, rather than what should be done. Someone I can trust."

He gave a light chuckle at this. Trust? Him? Perhaps the Director had taken the investigation more to heart than Wyoming had thought. If he was forced to scrape the bottom of the barrel for recruitment lines like this, then maybe the Director was beginning to lose his grip on things. "There are several other agents that could do this. You don't need me, and you don't have anything to offer me. I'm done with Project Freelancer, Director. I don't need this."

"Oh, but you do, Wyoming. I told you that we've been monitoring your movements. You've spent all of your time since leaving the project travelling aimlessly, until you found yourself here, seemingly at random. Now, unless you've been sightseeing, I think that its not a huge leap to guess that you _do _need this. You need closure, Reginald, and the only way you're going to get that is at the end of a bullet. So how about settling for revenge, instead?"

And then there was that smirk again. They both knew he had cornered him, and, to be honest, he had seen it coming. Well, not the 'becoming the leader of a newly formed hit squad' part, which had been an interesting turn of events, but they had both known that by the end of this conversation he would agree to re-enter the fold, as Agent Wyoming once more. Guess fighting was just in his blood. He was a soldier at heart, and that would never change.

"Very well then," Wyoming replied slowly, grudgingly. "If I _were_ to accept this position, who exactly would be placed under my command? I would want to be sure that the best tools had been placed at my disposal, before I could even think about signing on."

The Director nodded as he slid a file over to him, with **TOP SECRET **emblazoned onto the front in crimson letters, reeking of unoriginality. The Director could have just emailed him the details. He had his suspicions as to who he would be working with, but right now that confirmation could wait.

"Agent, I assure you that you will have everything you need, to ensure that those who have damaged this project will pay for their crimes."

Those seemed to be the magic words there, his fingers slowly opened the document and he found five names in the document. His eyes scanned through the documents at the fourth and fifth entries, as the first three he was already familiar with, and was unsurprised to see their names.

So it was to be himself, Maine, California, Alaska, and then these two new agents. Interesting, he mused, scanning through their files, and liking what he saw. It was a bit of a gamble on the Director's part, given that these two agents would have no idea what they were in for, but hell, this whole project had been a gamble to begin with. What would be the point in stopping now?

Maine would be useful to say the least, even without his brute strength, and he had always had a very strong rivalry going with Penn. Wyoming could make use of that, using it to rile him up against Penn, not that he really thought that he'd need to. Maine was a monster, pure and simple. He lived for the fight. He was Wyoming's kind of soldier.

Then there was Cal, who could also be useful. His jokes were almost as good as his own, and his skills were impeccable. His CQC abilities would make him a useful asset in the fight ahead, given that this was also Wyoming's own area of weakness. Then again, the same could be said for Alaska as well.

The chap was split right down the middle and you never knew when he would snap. That could prove to be very dangerous to both the team and to the enemy, as proven when the old chap had snapped during the Covenant attack on the MoI. Hopefully, it would play out, here, in their favour.

They would do. With them, and these two new agents...Nebraska and Colorado, he could take out Ark, Penn and Harper, and anyone else who stood in his way.

Failing was not an option, even putting the murders of his two former teammates aside. The two were dangerous, and Wyoming had seen the damage the Covenant could do to a planet first-hand. The UNSC needed Project Freelancer to aid them against this menace, the _true _threat, so the sooner the Crimson Sun was put to rest, the better.

"While I must express my hesitancy over the two new agents, this selection is most promising, Director." Wyoming stood up from the table and looked at him straight in the eye, leaning over the table and extending his hand. "They better be as good as your files say they are. Count me in."

The Director simply stood in return and accepted the handshake, a solemn look on his face. "Welcome back to the fight Agent Wyoming. A shuttle will be here soon, and then the real work can begin."

There was a brief pause, as the two stood across from each other, before Wyoming breached the silence, pointing to the elephant that had been in the room ever since the Director had entered the room. "What changed, sir? What made them bring you back?"

The Director frowned, looking troubled, staring at the Brit for a moment before replying. "I assume you are aware that the Crimson Sun...that Ark has assassinated two UNSC officials, Colonel Eric Grant and Doctor Simon Eisenberg." He paused for a moment, before Wyoming nodded, then continued, "Well, after Eisenberg's assassination, I was reinstated on a temporary basis, and contacted Carolina and the agents who had remained with her. It was until the most recent incident, however, that we were allowed to begin our work in earnest, until our restrictions were fully removed."

"What happened?" Wyoming asked, his brow furrowing.

"Harper...happened."


	13. Chapter 12: Sending a Message

**(A/N) Hey guys, time for a very delayed update, and I'd like to apologise about that, but hey, at least it's a long one, with plenty of action, right? You may remember Ian Harper from Phase One: Genesis - the evil, psychotic, malicious poster boy of the URF, and Cal's personal nemesis? Well, now we've got a chapter from his POV, letting you know exactly what he did that made the UNSC consider giving the Director all his old powers back. Warning: It gets pretty brutal! Also, to make up for our recent delays, a second chapter will be coming out later today, so keep a look out for it! **

**For those that don't know this by now, although come on, I'm sure there's precious few of you at this point, we're looking for new writers for OC Freelancers and Wash, the Counselor and 479er at the moment, to take part in the second half of Phase Two: Betrayal, and those interested should either send me a PM or else head on over to our forum and fill out an Author Application Form and then the relevant Character Application Form. Those interested in doing so should note that the forum will be closing for apps on the 1st of January 2014, so get to work! **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Twelve – Sending a Message**

**Lt Ian Harper**

**Written by BrambleStar14**

* * *

"_I should say I am far more cleverer than any of the people who put me here. As a matter of fact, I could leave any time I wanted. It's only a doll house after all. Anyway, I don't mind. I like dolls._

_Particularly the live ones."_

― The Joker, _Batman: Arkham Asylum_

* * *

Ian Harper had found himself with nothing to do, and as a result, that meant he was bored. He hated a select few things, such as rainbows, little children and those pictures of "funny cats" that kept appearing every time he tried to access the Internet, but most of all, beyond anything else, he hated being bored. Unfortunately, this wasn't all that new of an experience, as it tended to happen if he hadn't shot anything for five minutes, and he had been cooped up in this dump for _days_.

He lay back on his bed, which was tucked into a corner of his quarters within the old Insurrection base, which Ark had turned into his personal headquarters, staring at the light hanging from the ceiling, his eyes wide as he focused his breathing to be as slow and controlled as he could make it. There was literally nothing to do. He _hated_ having nothing to do. Ark had informed him earlier that there might be a task for him later, and he was counting off the seconds until his "leader" called. Not that Harper cared about the "rules" or what he was or wasn't _supposed _to do, but he might as well follow Ark. For now.

At least he got to kill shit.

He wondered briefly if he could actually make himself stop breathing, his loosely connected thoughts wondering if being dead would be more interesting than waiting for Arkansas to make up his mind and call on him. Absent-mindedly, he threw the small rubber ball across the room, catching it without a second thought as it deflected off of the opposite wall. It was all he could do to pass the time. Eventually, he had had enough.

"I hate being bored!" he moaned, sitting up and looking around the room for something to occupy his attention. The second person occupying the room grinned, stifling a laugh at his boss's obvious discomfort.

"Take it easy, you're freaking out over nothing. Ark'll call you in soon. I hope," he ended on a mutter, eyes following Harper as he jumped to his feet and anxiously paced around the room, arms folded.

Harper refused to listen. He really needed to do something, to kill something, or maybe even torture something. That would be fun. Maybe he could head to the brig and vent on whatever riff-raff he found. But there was no-one there, he remembered suddenly, his mood souring with the remembrance. Maybe he could _take_someone to the Brig? Nah, Ark would have him locked up and he'd be back to square one_._

"Too long, Falcon!" he insisted, heading over to his desk and searching through the drawers for his handgun. "Far too long! I need something to do. I need somewhere to go! Where is this damn gun?!" He turned around to see his second in command, Falcon, twirling it around with a grin. Walking over, he snatched it defensively, walking back to his bed and hugging the pistol tightly.

"Don't touch."

Falcon laughed softly, pushing a hand through dark brown hair that was creeping down towards his dark eyes, shrugging. "Sorry boss. I know you get attached."

Harper growled, cleaning the gun mindlessly. Unfortunately, the gun was in good condition and he was finished in very little time. He stormed around the room, moving things for want of something to do, forcing Falcon off of the chair he was occupying and throwing it to see what would happen. It bounced twice after connecting solidly with the wall. Harper made a mental note to try and beat that record.

Getting an idea, he quickly picked up his data-pad, sending a couple of threatening messages to random people in the address book in an attempt to ruin some days. He felt pretty pleased with himself until he received that very message, having sent it to himself by accident. Frustrated, he jumped back onto the bed, hands buried in the hair he'd regrown after his short stay on the Freelancer's wonderful ship, madness twinkling worse than ever in his deep green eyes.

"Ian," Falcon soothed. "They won't be long. Maybe five minutes. They said around three-" He was cut off by Harper's yell of frustration.

"Five minutes?! That's ages! What if I get bored some more?! I need something to do, a couple of books, a target to shoot at, maybe a television! Bring me knitting!" His rant was cut off by a sharp bleep emitting from his data-pad. Diving off of the bed, and hitting the floor in the process, Harper stumbled to his feet and darted to the desk, shouting with glee as he recognised Ark's number, encrypted as it was.

"That's my cue!" he muttered happily, dancing to the door, trying to dramatically hit the _open_button and missing twice, hitting his hand against the wall instead and growling. He practically sprinted to the main control centre, popping his head around the door and spying Ark standing by the large array of screens against one wall, still wearing his armour. He never seemed to be out of it, at least, for as long as Harper had known him. Harper walked across the room casually, drawing a few eyes.

"Someone order a psycho?" he half-shouted, drawing Ark's attention as he snapped a half-hearted salute, opting to stare at the screens rather than his apparent commanding officer. "Can I kill something this time? Tell me I can kill something. I haven't killed something for ages and I'm getting reeeeeaaaaally bored here, Ark-"

"Harper," Ark interrupted wearily, his hand raised to his forehead, no doubt suppressing a headache.

"And you get all the cool stuff, this live execution stuff and the whole "we are justice and I am the leader" stuff and-"

"Harper."

"It's just really frustrating. I'm a combat specialist! I need to kill stuff! Or blow stuff up! Or set stuff on fire, or raze it, or nuke it or even just take a prisoner, I could do with getting blood under my nails."

"Harper!" Ark half shouted, drawing Harper's attention momentarily, before his eyes trailed back to the screens, transfixed by all the moving figures and flashing lights and flames. "You'll get your wish if you'll just shut up for a second and listen. We have a slight problem. The UNSC have finally made their move, sending out several army squads from the capital to search for us and, presumably, to negate the threat we're posing. They've begun tentatively searching the jungle nearest the capital, but if our intel is correct they should come across our facility here by tomorrow. I want you to take your squad topside and…send the UNSC a message for me."

His tone remained low, but the order was easily understandable, even for someone as distracted and as absent-minded as Harper.

"While that sounds fun, but why not do it yourself, Arky-boy?" He smiled innocently, as though it was a simple question.

Ark apparently was not fooled and merely raised an eyebrow. "Because former-Freelancers taking down a squad of soldiers wouldn't make the UNSC take note. You're taking this mission because we need to show that the Crimson Sun isn't just a pair of rogue Freelancers. If our men can take down some UNSC soldiers, clean, brutal and on their own, that'll be a message that they won't be expecting."

Harper rolled his eyes, before nodding."Got it. Boring political stuff. Booooring! I'll just go kill stuff," he turned and practically skipped from the room. Just as he reached the door, he turned slowly, watching Ark with renewed interest. "We don't have any prisoners in the brig, do we? For... informational purposes only."

Ark shook his head with a long suffering sigh, leaving Harper feeling both disappointed and slightly proud that he seemed to annoy everyone he met. He turned and skipped away.

Though Ark may not realise it, he was sharper then he appeared to be. He knew Ark was keeping him from anything too important, trying to stop any new Innies from becoming just too loyal to Harper. He was attempting to stop him building a power base. Well, Harper had decided, he can think he has. Ark had apparently slightly misjudged Harper, assuming he rules through just fear. In his time, he had saved a lot of Insurrectionists and there was a great many soldiers in the Crimson Sun who owed him loyalty. However, he was aware that it was better to save that influence for later, when he would be dramatic and reveal his power. Maybe with dramatic music and a flash effect, like in all those modern movies. Maybe he could get an exploding building in the background! That seemed to be all the rage at the minute.

He strolled back into his room, whistling a jaunty, uplifting tune and grinning at Falcon, proffering a thumbs up in his deputy's direction. "We're on. Grab weapons and... and stuff that sounds dramatic and awesome and inspiring. We're going hunting."

* * *

Harper did enjoy working with his team. Mind you, he enjoyed working in general, as work often involved slowly taking people apart for the sake of it, but what's life without its little benefits? After all, life was pretty much a game, and a game that Harper intended to win at that.

By killing everything else that played.

He glanced over his squad as the UNSC Pelican hovered over its LZ above Haven's lush forests, preparing to land and drop off the squads of soldiers on board, not expecting the welcome that was being prepared for them. Harper had found the perfect location for the welcoming party; it would be quite a lovely ambush. Or a lovely "getting shot at," moment, but either variation appealed to Harper.

Every single one of the underlings that were travelling with him that day had been handpicked by him, his own personal squad, the only survivors of his time from the UNSC, though he loathed that section of his career. Not enough time killing of stuff.

_And then there was Isaac. _

Scowling, he shook his head, before looking over the team, anger fading as quickly as anyone's impression of his sanity. Each member that sat within the small craft would follow him into hell. They already had on multiple occasions. And they all had lovely little codenames as well, given by the ONI operatives whose job seemed to be giving cool nicknames to enemy specialists.

Falcon, known to the rest of the squad as Phillip Blake, was up front, driving. As his codename implied, he could fly, and damn well at that. Clad in one of the few remaining Advanced Prototype suits they had left, he had painted a blue and gold falcon across his breastplate, over the nondescript grey armour, making him look like somewhat of a resident birdwatcher. Otherwise, he looked like the definition of a psychopath, with his wide, raving eyes and smug smirk permanently decorating his face. Which he was, in a sense, even if he pitied the UNSC far too much for Harper's liking.

Firefly, wild red hair dulled in the low light, was further along the pelican's interior, casually placing a gas canister into his custom flamethrower. As Aaron Paul's codename implied, he put the "maniac" into pyromaniac. He was a brilliant fighter, perfect to have in any situation that was required explosive expertise and Harper had grown to respect this somewhat eccentric soldier, knowing full well that he was worth his weight in gold. Until, one day, he got himself caught within his own blaze and was badly burned. His armour, unfortunately, was more basic than Falcon's, standard Innie gear with a few modifications, such as the gold coloured pauldrons he sported. He was an excellent hit and run fighter, redirecting his fuel into his makeshift jetpack for short bursts, he could allow for launches into the air, past enemies, or down to the ground from his perch. He was also known to continually lament the lack of a properly functioning jetpack.

Mike Baxter, or Crosshair, was the next in line, smirking as he loaded another bullet into his sniper rifle. Mike had been a prolific sniper during the time he served in the UNSC, and Harper couldn't remember the last time that he missed a shot. With a sarcastic, almost uncaring personality, he was one of the deadliest men Harper had ever known. He wore his dark coloured armour, again, standard Insurrectionist gear, but with a white and red crosshairs painted over the heart. Baxter, seeing Harper looking, nodded once, before snapping his ammo cartridge into place, the sound echoing loudly in the confined space, gelled silver hair as dull as Firefly's normally bright mess.

A man was whistling his signature tune to himself as he examined his own helmet, checking his reflection, examining the rust coloured hair and brown eyes with an "it'll do for now," expression. Little was known about Geist, even by Harper, since he'd somehow entered Castle Base and removed himself from the ONI records, expect for the fact that he had some French ancestry. His accent gave it away, though it was usually covered by the whistling that was the last thing most of his prey heard. Harper didn't even know the guy's real name. Wearing another of the Advanced Prototype suits, Geist's had been modified to allow more mobility, at the loss of much of the suit's stopping power. He was an assassin on the battlefield, the stiletto to Firefly's explosions. Harper knew for a fact that Geist found the rumour he had ripped an Active Camouflage from a Sangheili and attached it to his armour hilarious, given that only Spartan and Freelancer tech was anything near advanced enough to make use of the alien tech, though he did nothing to dissuade the mistruth.

And finally, the last member of Harper's little gang, Lucas Thorpe, or Circuit. The youngest member, Lucas was a technology wizard, doing miracles such as taking down the Orion Base's defence network for a little under _eighteen minutes_ with only a data-pad, which must have been a source of considerable embarrassment for the UNSC. His red hair was a shorter length than Firefly's, though he often left it untamed, giving him a mad professor look as he showed off his latest act of genius. Wearing the Crimson Sun's version of ODST armour, grey with neon green trimming, an extra power cell strapped across his back, he was fully capable of holding his own in combat, despite his young age and relative inexperience compared to the other squad members.

And then there was Maverick, also known as Ian Harper, now clad in a grey and red replica of his old suit, except now a list of Freelancer states adorned his left shoulder pauldron, with "Massachusetts," "Michigan," "Arkansas" and "Pennsylvania" crossed out. Enough said, really.

Harper strode through the thick undergrowth causally, before sitting on a rock and waiting. Rain lashed down from the dark, stormy clouds above and cascaded from the treetops in which it collected. The perfect weather for a stealthy takedown. Too bad Harper's team weren't gonna be doing the stealthy approach when it came to these soldiers. They were here to execute them, might as well return the favour. And let them know they were returning the favour. Harper currently had his signature combo weapons, a large bowie knife, alongside his pistol, but today was also equipped with some new weapons Ark had "misappropriated" from a UNSC supplier. A smaller and lighter machine egun prototype. They should actually give it a decent name, Harper mused. Like the Murder Gun, or the Killa Mega Death Bringer of Chaos.

A pity they only had enough ammunition for this mission, but he'd just have to make the best of it.

They had observed the Pelican lift off, presumably having dropped off its "cargo", flying away towards the capital with a shrill drone. Harper was just waiting now, as much as he loathed it. He needed to shoot something; he really needed to shoot something. Any minute now, those soldiers would wander right into the clearing up ahead to regroup and then- his fingers tightened around the knife, though he controlled himself, for once, and continued to wait.

Suddenly, without warning, several squads of army soldiers slashed their way through the undergrowth and burst into the clearing, rifles raised, before lowering them slightly and turning to the man who was presumably their commander, who rapidly ordered a perimeter set up, his eyes sweeping the area as he assessed the situation. Apparently, the Insurrectionist movement they expected to find weren't here. Faulty intel, or something more suspicious? Harper decided to put them out of their misery. He clipped his gun onto the magnetic holding device on his back, and held up his hands, walking out before the soldiers, much to their evident surprise.

"Alright guys?! Hello! Maverick here, just to give you a very warm welcome. You know, here to discuss surrender, that sort of shit?" He noted that every single soldier present had their attention, and weapons, entirely trained on him. _Excellent._

The Commander swallowed, his left eyebrow raised, apparently nonplussed by this sudden turn of events. "Ian Harper, you are now in UNSC custody. Surrender yourself and no-one has to be killed today." Harper laughed.

"Ah, Commander…I think you might've misunderstood me. I'm here to discuss _your _surrender."

The Commander barked out a sharp laugh, and shook his head. "The UNSC don't _surrender_, you scum. And definitely not to you. Now are you going to come in quietly, or not?"

Harper cocked his head, as though trying to decide. "That's a tricky one, Commander. It really is." He spread his arms wide, like a ringmaster, and clicked his fingers. Without warning, gunfire erupted through the hollow, felling several of the soldiers as the survivors fell back in horror, staring at Harper, who hadn't moved through the exchange, except for a rather wicked grin appearing while they had been distracted by their fallen allies. "I guess I'm _not_ going to come quietly after all," he replied, his voice tinged with mocking sadness.

"Welcome to Haven."

With that, the soldiers opened fire, and he grunted as the force of the bullets drove him back a few steps, winded, but his armour had managed to hold up against their assault, and he briefly gave a moment to thank whoever had designed these suits, although they had probably been killed when the URF had been brought down.

The soldiers in front of him began to retreat back into the forest, determined to put some distance between themselves and the ambush site, as he collected himself and drew his weapon, rage sparking up inside him, tinged with excitement. Finally, he'd get to relieve himself of some of the boredom that he'd been tortured with the last few weeks. He opened up radio communications with the rest of the team, giving the order to attack. "They're running. Have some fun. Kill them all."

* * *

Bravo 2-3 and 2-4 hurried through the undergrowth, 2-3 supported by 2-4, cursing as his hand clutched at the wound that had punctured his left Achilles tendon. They limped along, heading back towards the Pelican that the Commander had called for emergency evac. These odds were not looking good. If only they could get to the Pelican-

"See, I would let you get there, but my boss' expression of disappointment would be really uncomfortable." A sharp shot ripped through the air and 2-4 fell to the ground with a scream, a bullet being placed squarely between his shoulder blades, severing his upper vertebrae and disconnecting his spine, leaving him paralysed, but still alive. 2-3 turned around slowly to see Falcon perched as a ridge some way behind the, a DMR held between his fingers. Lowering the rifle, he jumped down, walking slowly towards them. 2-3 yanked a pistol from his holster in desperation, breathing becoming more laboured as he tried to aim through his pain.

"Forget it. Save yourself the embarrassment and the hope." Falcon raised his DMR, showing little hint of concern at the other man's actions. "It could have been worse, you know. I could have been one of the others. And I love them, but they are really brutal. Sorry."

2-3 hesitated between attempting to shoot and lowering the gun and the hesitation cost him. Falcon's shot landed between his eyes, felling him instantly. 2-4 could barely register his surroundings through his agony and as Falcon fired another shot, turning away, 2-4 didn't register anything anymore, not even pain.

* * *

Bravo 1-7 and 2-5 burst into a second clearing, their guns drawn and observed the area wildly, looking for any possible threats. Unfortunately, they couldn't see the threat posed to them. Circuit sat casually among the bushes, holding his data-pad in his arms and using a rather lovely thermal function to watch the two. He manipulated the camera to zoom in on the outline surrounding one of their belts and raised his rifle as he looked away, the laser sighting soon lighting up his target, just before he pulled the trigger.

The bullet slammed into one of the grenades on 1-7's belt, causing it to explode, destroying the upper half of 1-7's body and the left arm of 2-5 as a large explosion rocked the area, and by the time the smoke cleared Circuit was striding into the clearing, a smile on his face.

Wandering towards the survivor, he casually finished off the struggling soldier with his pistol, with a simple shot to the head, blood spurting through the air as it left the soldier's cranium. He paused, looking at his tablet again, then back at the destroyed wreck of the twitching 1-7.

"I am a genius! A completely unappreciated genius!" Grumbling, he marched off.

* * *

Bravo 1-3, 1-4 and 2-1 were quietly moving through the undergrowth, attempting to escape the area that had become a slaughter-zone, watching with mounting horror the dwindling life-signs of their comrades and terrified that they would be next. The pressure was building, but up ahead was a narrow gorge. If they got inside, they might be able to radio for backup. How had the Innies known they were coming? How had everything gone so wrong so _fast_?

Crosshair carefully and delicately pulled a small metal tab on the side of his rifle scope, rotating the wheel though multiple different options, rotating the centre of the scope itself until he reached _thermal,_flicking the tab back down to cover the wheel again, looking through the now partially circular scope, easily seeing the three outlines taking cover within the undergrowth. Rotating the switch on his ammo clip, he changed ammo sets to _explosive_, now aiming at the tree opposite the group. When he was ready, he fired.

The bullet flew through the air at hundreds of metres per second, deflecting from the tree and drilling through 1-3's head, detonating directly as it entered, killing both 1-3 and 1-4. 2-1 flew several feet backwards, landing among the flames and parts of his teammates, stunned. Crosshair, smirking, changed the scope to _heartbeat_, easily finishing off the stunned trooper with another reflected shot directly through the heart.

* * *

Crimson 2-2 and 2-6 were two of the remaining troopers, hiding in a copse of trees, ignoring the rain pouring down their visors from the heavens above in their attempts to remain silent as they could be. They were completely still, meaning that no normal enemy soldier could spot them. They had been trained well and were putting that training to excellent use. Maybe when everything died down, they could escape. It wouldn't surprise them for Harper to forget the number of soldiers that had been sent. It wasn't the first time he had been distracted.

They had forgotten that Harper wasn't the only person hunting the would-be hunters in this instance.

Without warning, 2-2 collapsed to the ground with a thump, a bullet hole allowing a perfect view through his visor to the other side of his head. Before 2-6 could even react other than to squawk in surprise and fear, a familiar whistle caught his attention. Seconds later, the breath was knocked out of him, a blade cutting his throat open as he gurgled, attempting to move, but finding himself unable to.

The next minute, a group of five soldiers were in the copse, alerted by the cries, finding only two dead troopers. Hearing a sound behind the group, one of them spun around to see Geist stood there, holding a silenced pistol in one hand and a blade in the other. He fired five times before they could react, casually stating to himself, "Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq." Watching the bodies fall, he turned away, removing his helmet and placing a cigarette in his mouth before lighting it. Grinning, he took a drag on the cigarette, reflecting that he was likelier to be killed by the damn things instead of his job.

* * *

The Commander was in shock. His entire team had been obliterated and Harper was closing in on him. He sprinted towards the nearby dropship, surprising Harper with the speed with which he moved. No doubt he was thinking that as long as he could escape, he could return with reinforcements, when the reality of the scenario that they were facing was fully realised, and more importantly, less life-threatening. _Well, that wasn't going to happen today_.

Behind him, Harper stepped through the treeline, observing the six remaining soldiers that stood between him and the Commander. Smiling absently, he threw a flashbang in their direction, covering his ears and looking away until it detonated, then charged towards them, weapon raised. He fired twice to take down the first two soldiers, and once to his right, kicking that body forwards, which knocked another soldier down. He finished the fallen soldier off and quickly wrapped a hand around the fifth soldier's hand, forcing him to shoot his friend in the head, before Harper forced the gun against his own head, pulling the trigger. Stepping forwards and removing his helmet, a wide grin on his face, Harper laughed, six bodies on the ground around him.

Without warning, a rifle butt smashed into Harper's nose, knocking him backwards in surprise, blood spurting from his now busted nose. Seconds later, a bullet flew past him, creasing his temple and sending more blood. Grinning wildly, he fired his machine gun wildly from the hip, hearing two thuds. He looked up, smirking. Two more soldiers were lying on the ground, clutching at wounds in their stomachs. Seeing that the younger of the two, who couldn't have been more than twenty-two - still a kid, really - had been the one who had shot him, a plan formulated in his head.

He walked over to the Commander, lifting him off of his feet. "There is your dropship, commander. Observe."

Without warning, an armoured blur known as Firefly saluted from the treeline, using his jetpack to burst to the treetops in one swift movement, before using the same manoeuvre to head for the Pelican's cockpit. He slammed into the hull, attaching a small device onto the ship's surface before rocketing away, just before the dropship was gutted through a series of explosions, fragmenting metal falling the ground as any survivors were killed in the crash. Firefly, landing on the upper branches of a monstrosity of a tree, whooped.

Harper looked the Commander in the eye. "So much for the 'hunters'! Thank you, though, Commander. Your example shall light up the UNSC like a beacon of fear. I wonder if it was brilliance, or foolishness of Arkansas to allow me to be the one sending the message."

And he closed his fists around the Commander's neck, feeling the servo's effortlessly working in his hand, the mechanical muscles flexing and allowing his hand to effortlessly compress metal, to puncture flesh and to crack straight through the bone until armoured glove met armoured glove and the limply flopping Commander was released, showered by his own falling bone fragments and blood drops. Harper turned to the two wounded UNSC soldiers, the only survivors of this rather one-sided battle. Walking to the one who had shot him, he lifted him up and seized the dog tags hanging around the soldier's neck.

"Kyle Mathesson. Tell me Kyle, do you want to live?" The soldier nodded vigorously. "Why do you fight with the UNSC?" Kyle gulped.

"To k-kill stuff. Everyone was g-going on about it. It sounded f-fun." He looked terrified, and Harper knew his earlier note had been correct. This guy was still just a kid at heart. Soft, terrified and easily impressionable. Harper liked him. Maybe Ark could do a better job of this than Harper could, but if the kid did it for fun...

"Well Kyle, it's your lucky day. We need new blood to replace certain teammates lost over the years." _Barb, Trigger, Hunter..._"So, we are offering you the chance to live. One test. Have a gun," he placed his handgun into Kyle's hand, helping him to his feet as he did so. "Gun," he said to Falcon, who threw him a handgun, catching it smartly before turning back to the kid.

"Kyle. I want you to execute Mr..." he walked over and checked the other person's tags. "Moran here. The rest of my team is busy stringing the bodies of your fallen comrades up around the forest now, but if you'd rather not kill your teammate, I'm sure they'd enjoy killing both of you. Make a choice."

Kyle turned to face his squadmate. Behind him, Harper raised his handgun to the back of his head, just in case. _This would be interesting_. Kyle slumped.

"Fine." Moran looked to protest, but Kyle squeezed the trigger and his former teammate slumped back onto the ground, dead. Slapping the new recruit on the back, Harper holstered his gun and began to walk away, signalling signal Ark to inform him of a successful mission.

"I love this job," he muttered happily to himself.

He looked out at the nearest clearing, were Geist and Crosshair were working hard, stringing the dead soldiers' bodies up in a neat row, a nice present to the UNSC patrol that would eventually find them. A smile lit up his face as he was put through to Ark, and he gave the former Freelancer all the information he needed to know in two simple words.

"Message sent."


	14. Chapter 13: Recruitment

**(A/N) Hey guys! So, second chapter in one day, attempting to make up to all of our readers out there for our recent delays! At the very least, I can promise that Phase Two: Betrayal will run smoothly for the foreseeable future, as we've got all the chapters in, ready and waiting to be put out for the next month or two! If you're just joining us and haven't read the chapter uploaded earlier today, featuring Lt Harper doing what he does best, then you should probably go and read that first! This chapter features the return of Agent Virginia, and is beyond heart wrenching, so I hope you have a few tissues at hand!**

**Again, just for consistency's sake, reminding you all that we're currently looking for writers for the second half of this fic, so if you're interested either PM me for more info or head on over to our forum and fill out the relevant application forms. You know the drill at this stage. Just remember that apps close on the 1st of January, 2014.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen - Recruitment**

**Agent Virginia**

**Written by anna1795**

* * *

"_The capacity for friendship is God's way of apologizing for our families."_

― Jay McInerney,_The Last of the Savages_

* * *

_"…and so, we finally bid our last farewells to not only an exemplary soldier, but a beloved daughter, and a true friend to all who knew her." The priest closed his book and stepped away from the burial place, a freshly dug hole in the dark earth. Virginia stood up from her metal seat at the end of the crowd, making sure that her dark blue uniform looked crisp and perfect; every seam in place, no loose hair, not a speck of dirt. It wasn't because she was vain, far from it. It was because Massa deserved no less._

_There were a fair number of other people there, but fewer than she had actually expected. For Massa's kind, sweet-hearted nature, she had not been extremely popular. They all came up one by one, dropping an occasional flower on the top of the casket and muttering farewells. More often than not, they passed by her father without a word, most likely figuring that he had heard enough condolences to last him the rest of his life. The grey-haired man looked entirely broken, as if every line on his face was a fracture that no amount of repair could fix. _

_Finally, it came to be Virginia's turn as she stepped up to the coffin. She held a yellow lily in her hand. When seeing the mass of other colourful flowers on top of the ceremonial bouquet, she felt horribly inadequate. Still, she added her own contribution and stood by Massa's coffin for a while. There was nobody else behind her, and most of the other mourners were leaving. _

_"Hey," she mumbled silently to the ears that she knew wouldn't hear her. "It's me. I just wanted to say that…I can't be sorry enough. I should've been more attached, more willing to trust. You didn't deserve this. I wish that you were here." The words were so empty and scripted, but they were true and meaningful. There just wasn't anything else to say. She stepped away, away from her best friend. She didn't leave, though, but stood by Massa's dad. _

_"I'm sorry," she said quietly to him. He wiped his eyes as they both stared straight ahead. She was taller than him, but only by a little bit. He probably stood tall and proud in the heyday of his career, when nothing could touch him. Now, he seemed shrunken under the burden of his losses. _

_"I didn't expect for this to happen," he said lowly, in his aged and husky voice. "I thought that I was working to keep my family safe in my time, that nothing could hurt them. First, my wife; then, my son; now, Kim…" He shuddered, looking like he was about to cry again. "Have you ever lost family before?"_

_The words hit very close to home in Virginia's heart. "Yes, I have. Two cousins and a brother."_

_"How much did it hurt when you lost them?" he asked. Virginia didn't have a very good answer to that. She had tried not to dwell on the matter._

_"It hurt, but…Kim's hurts a bit more."_

_He seemed surprised. "Why is that? She wasn't even family."_

_"I have no shortage of family where I come from, sir," Virginia said after a moment. "It hurt, but we all had each other to dull the pain. With…Kim (she'd never be used to saying Massa's real name)… with Kim, she was my first friend. Not a teammate, not a fellow soldier, but a friend."_

_"I see," was his only reply. They stared at the coffin, then the grave, for what seemed to be hours. A wind was blowing reddened leaves down onto the ground. After a while, Massa's dad gave a shaky sigh. "Where will you go after this?"_

_Virginia hadn't thought that far ahead, honestly, but she couldn't deny what her instincts were telling her to. "I just need to get away for a little bit, let my head settle. Hang around where I need to; check in on family, stuff like that." There wasn't anything else to do, until the Director called her back from leave…if he ever did. "And you, sir?"_

_"She was the only family I had left, but some we had some friends off-planet that I should probably visit," he replied sadly. "They won't like the news I have to share." _

_"I didn't enjoy sharing the news, sir." Virginia stared back at the grave. "…Kim was an amazing person. No one can ever fill her place."_

_"I know," Massa's father replied with a whisper, as they continued to stare into the void of Massa's grave, coming up to swallow all their hopes and dreams for the future._

* * *

_Some months later..._

Virginia knew that she was being tracked.

She'd known ever since her last supply run back into the town near where she was staying. The atmosphere of the town of Blink was normally a relaxed lull, where everyone knew everyone and were startled by the arrival of strangers. You had to work to get there trust, but if you had the right intentions, they were friendly. She lived in the evergreens surrounding the town, and they respected her privacy. With her most recent visit, however, the townspeople had been too quiet, too hurried in their movements. It was like watching a herd of deer; when they knew an enemy was nearby, they were always on their toes.

A stranger was encroaching on her territory, and tracking her.

Luckily, nobody around could match Virginia's skills. She could catch every trace of pursuers, every change in the environment of the evergreens where she stayed. She was an ultimate predator. So, when she knew that whoever had followed her hadn't left yet, she came to the sensible conclusion: find out who they were, and drive them away.

So, she made purposeful markers for them to find: a tuft of hair on a tree branch, a piece of cloth from her shirt, footprints, and directed it to a clearing near the edge of the woods. Standing in a tree with her bow at the ready, she waited for the inevitable arrival of whoever was putting Blink on edge.

A series of measured footsteps caught her ear, and a figure moved into the sunlight of the clearing. Generic, colourless jumpsuit and dark skin with a balding head. Virginia eased up the tension on her bow, but the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She hopped down from her tree and landed in the soft needles.

"Counselor," she greeted, and made sure that her voice didn't sound overly friendly. His dark eyes turned to her, looking as unreadable as a cloudy night sky.

"Agent Virginia, I knew that I would find you out here."

"I made it so that you would find me," she retorted. "It was not accidental."

"Indeed." The way that he was never perturbed by anything got on her nerves, but she hid her unease. "If I may ask a question, why are you here? It's so far away from civilization, even on a relatively developed planet such as Veritas."

"I enjoy my privacy," Virginia replied. "I've never really fit in well with people, and a hunter never sleeps. So, I'm here, living off the land, exercising my skills and getting better, and taking care of unwanted pests." She put particular emphasis on the last word, stating her point. The Counselor didn't seem to notice. Her curiosity was overcoming her general unease about the Counselor's character. "Why are you here, Counselor?"

"I am here to recall you back into active duty with Project Freelancer."

A combination of excitement and apprehension sparked in the midst of her mind. "Freelancer is dead, Counselor," Virginia replied. "Our mission is done."

"Then why are there still Insurrectionists threatening the stability of the Inner and Outer Colonies?" The Counselor replied smoothly. "Why are two Freelancer traitors still on the loose? Why are they eliminating high-commanding UNSC officials?"

Virginia didn't have an answer, but another question.

"Why would I want to go back?" she asked him. The Counselor didn't look like he understood, so she plowed on ahead. "I've seen valuable soldiers injured and killed as part of training exercises; I've seen the Director annihilate an entire city just because they were harbouring a few Insurrectionist officers; I've seen my teammates shot at, captured, and blown up."

The Counselor showed absolutely no sign of wanting to stop her tirade, and the spark in Virginia's head flared up. She continued. "I was provoked and bullied by my own teammates, and the closest person to being my friend was killed. YOU didn't have collect her belongings when moving out, Counselor. YOU didn't have to take the crate and Massa back home to her dad and explain to him why she wouldn't be coming home! YOU didn't have to SEE HIS FACE when I told him that the last living member of his family had been murdered!" A few birds sprung up from the trees and flew away at her outburst, but Virginia didn't care.

"So answer me this, Counselor, since you seem to have all the answers: why would I want to go back?"

"Because you want revenge for Massa's murder," was the Counselor's calm reply.

That stopped Virginia in her tracks. She closed her mouth. The Counselor continued on as the enraged inferno in Virginia's brain started dying down, along with her anger.

"Pennsylvania, Arkansas, and Lieutenant Harper have not gone into hiding quietly. They have formed their own group of Insurrectionists, known as the Crimson Sun-"

"I know," Virginia interrupted quietly. "I've met some of them."

"Then you know that they are a force that needs to be quelled, and quickly, before they begin to get out of hand. Even if you don't see it as your war, should these attacks continue, chaos will spread. Soon, you won't be able to hide from your problems anymore."

Damn it! He brought up a fair point.

The Counselor was finishing up. "So, will you come out of hiding and take care of this menace with Project Freelancer, or wait for the fight to come to you?"

Virginia thought for a moment. The last thing that she wanted right now was to return to the life of general misery that had plagued her; subjecting herself to Carolina's criticism and South's general malice was not her idea of a good time. However, she remembered the look on Massa- _no,_ she reminded herself, Kim's father's face when they were at her funeral. He at least deserved some closure. Besides, for as much as she didn't want to admit it, the Counselor was right to saw that Penn and Ark's vendetta would spread. They needed to be stopped.

"Fine," she growled, not happy with the ultimatum. "I'm coming back."

"Very good," the Counselor replied with that same passive smile that always sent shivers up her spine. "Then I have your first mission; the Director and I need for you to recruit a new agent and pass on information about the project." He drew out a folder from somewhere and handed it to Virginia, but she didn't open it. "All of the necessary information is in there for them, including the pick-up point and their new designation. We will be expecting you to have completed this assignment by 0800 hours tomorrow. Pilot 479er will be picking you up outside the Blink town limits to return you to the _Mother of Invention_."

"I'm expected to find a new agent for the Project and deliver this information in the span of less than twenty-four hours," Virginia deadpanned. "That's slightly unrealistic, isn't it?" The Counselor gave her a look, and she huffed. "Sir?"

"You will find it very simple to deliver this information. We will be very surprised if you do not succeed in your task," was the cool reply. "The information of your target is on the first page."

Virginia found it very interesting that he referred to the new recruit as a 'target', but let it slide. She opened the folder, saw the picture, and snapped it shut. Her temper started flaring again.

"May I ask WHY we're bringing _her_ into this?" she snapped at the Counselor.

"Our objective requires the addition of operatives into the Project." How DARE he not sound like he had any remorse for this?!

"Yes, but shouldn't I have at least SOME say in this?"

"Agent Virginia, you must admit that going after Agents Arkansas, Pennsylvania, and their new organization with our current numbers does not calculate victory in our favour. If we are to succeed in this aspect, then it is necessary for additional personnel to be brought on board. Besides," he added, "you cannot deny that she does have exceptional skill. You, after all, have known her the longest."

Virginia was still apprehensive, but conceded the fact that the Counselor had a point. Even if they were to immediately go after Ark and Penn, just catch the two of them alone, they'd have a hell of a time taking them down. The memory of Penn almost snapping Carolina's spine like a twig was testament.

"I'm not happy about this, Counselor," was her final say. She saw his mouth curve upwards ever so slightly.

"Thank you, Agent Virginia," the Counselor gave a short bow and turned to leave. "I'm sure that Massachusetts would be proud."

Virginia didn't even dignify that with a response. The bitter taste in her mouth threatened to spill out if she opened it in a retort. Instead, she ran off to her camp to pack her stuff and start hiking.

* * *

_Later that night…_

Geez, she knew how to stay out of sight! Virginia's nerves were on end as she shuffled slowly through the larger city of Hilltop, deliberately going slower so as to be able to identify faces in the darkness. She was scanning for the woman whose information she had stashed in her trusty 'bag of tricks'. Knowing a night like tonight, when most of the street walkers were barely conscious or spewing out slurred curses, tonight was a bar night for the soldiers at the nearby base. The question was, which one was where she would be at?

The cracked neon light of 'The Seaman's Tale' danced up ahead, and that seemed like the best bet, given its close proximity to the base. Virginia bobbed and wove her way through the exiting crowd of drunken marines, and silently slipped inside the door. She leaned the hard case of her bow against a wall, hung up her leather jacket, and looked around. Most people were seated at old wooden tables, while the occasional few were standing and flirting with the waitresses. The largest collection, however, were clumped in a corner and creating the most racket. It seemed like some sort of drinking game was occurring, so she went over two investigate.

At least fourteen people were seated at the largest table, with a massive pile of empty beer bottles either on the table or on the floor. A fair number had passed out already, but a greying man with a neat beard and a woman with mid-length blonde hair were in the lead, staring each other down intently.

"Anything that I can get you, miss?" a tiny voice asked from about Virginia's elbow. She looked down to see an all-too-young waitress trembling in her shoes. She clearly was not comfortable with all of the guys around her. The poor think was scared almost out of her skin.

"Just a light beer," Virginia said. "What they're having." The waitress ran off to the counter, and her attention switched back to the drinking game.

"Hey, Rogers!" a brown-haired man yelled to the blonde woman. "Quit your stallin' and topple already!

"Shaddup and le' me tink!" the woman slurred back, fumbling with a bottle and spilling a fair amount on the table. A strip of black hair fell over her face, which she ignored as she threw back another bottle. She smacked her lips and gestured at her challenger. "You're *hic* your move, sir."

The older man picked up another bottle, realized it was empty, and chucked it against the wall while he made for another. The rim of the bottle just passed his lips before he slumped out of the chair and onto the floor, the bottle still lodged against his mouth.

A chorus of cheers rang up in the audience, and bills were exchanged and passed to the victors of the betting. A bottle was nudged into Virginia's hands by the waitress, and she gave her a generous tip for her troubles. The soldiers were all shouting again.

"God, Rogers!" someone yelled over the din. "You sure know how to hold down a beer!"

"Ha *hic* Had lossa prac *hic* practice," the blonde tried to say deliberately before leaning her head on the table with a groan. Several people laughed. Virginia just took a drink of the salty beer.

"Well, it shows!" the same brown-haired guy said again. "You're one of the best at everything!"

"Can *hic* Can't do it widdout some shut-eye, though," the blonde grumbled as she staggered to her feet. "Gonna…gonna head back to base. Catcha later." She stumbled for a moment, then started going through the most crowded area of the bar and back to the door. Virginia tailed her quietly, shaking her head, and dropped her beer at a random table.

Suddenly, a big bald guy stood up over 'Rogers' and folded his arms, barring the drunk woman's way. "Where ya goin', slut?" he asked with a snarl. 'Rogers' halted, staring blearily up at the other guy. Her drunken state was starting to dissipate already.

"Gonna head back to bed," was her mumbled answer. "Not…not in the mood to *hic* fight."

"Too bad," was Baldy's response, and his fist started towards her head. Virginia rushed forward and pushed 'Rogers' to the ground, catching the fist. Baldy stared at her in confusion.

"Eh?" he asked stupidly. Virginia started forcing the fist that she was holding up and to the side, bending the arm at a bad angle.

"You were stupid enough to go after her, so I'll say this in words you'll understand," Virginia snarled as Baldy started whimpering in pain. "Don't touch her, or anyone else, like that again!" She yanked his fist down onto a table, splitting it, and the shattered wood caused splinters to run through Baldy's hand and fingers. "Otherwise, you might just be without a hand." With the one last quip, Virginia grabbed Rogers' shirt and started pulling her towards the door. She tossed a few bills at the bartender to cover the broken table, grabbed her bow, and stepped outside.

Once outside in the cool air, Rogers gave a weak laugh. "You always know….when to cover for…me."

"For the smarter of the two of us, I think that you make more of the stupid decisions," Virginia berated her, grabbing a cold bucket of water. She dumped it unceremoniously over the woman's head, and she gave a yelp of shock.

"Yah! Geez!" she clutched her head and groaned at the pain. "What was that for?!" was the indignant question.

"Because I'm your sister," Virginia deadpanned. "Someone needs to look out for you."

"I'm an adult, you know!"

"I'm older than you. Deal with it."

Mumbling various curses, Rogers slid up the wall until she was standing, then gave a hearty laugh as the two of them embraced. "I missed you bunches," she spluttered in between tears. Virginia clapped her on the back comfortingly.

They held each other in a warm embrace before separating. Rogers wiped her eyes and pushed the black stripe of hair out of her tear-filled eyes. "So," she sniffled. "What brings you to my neck of the woods?"

"Oh, just thought I'd stop by for a visit," Virginia mumbled. Her sister saw past the lie immediately.

"You never 'just stop by for a visit,'" she accused good-naturedly. "Not since going into that project. By the way, how's the work?"

"Funny you should mention that," Virginia said, pulling out the file from her 'bag of tricks'. She held it out to your sister.

"Still see you have that old thing from when Eddy and I gave it to you when we were kids," Rogers observed while she took the file.

"Hey, it's handy," Virginia said defensively, but didn't put too much heart into it. No need to offend her sister.

"So, I'm going back with you now?" Rogers asked after reading everything in the file. "I get to get off this god-forsaken hunk of rock and actually _do_ something?"

"I wouldn't put it that mildly, but yeah," Virginia said while folding her arms.

"And I'm being given this new designation?" she asked. "West Virginia…what's it for?"

"Codenames. We're technically not supposed to know each other's names," she answered her sister.

"So, I can't call you by-"

"No," Virginia was quick to the punch. "You'll have to call me Virginia, like everyone else."

"Buzzkill."

"Not my rules."

"You're no fun," she pouted.

Virginia snickered. "Now, THAT is my rule." They exchanged a laugh together, like they hadn't in a long time.

"So," West started after a minute. "I have a week to get my stuff together?"

"I guess so," Virginia shrugged. "I leave tomorrow to head back to the ship."

"Wait, we're not just stuck on some random asteroid?" West asked excitedly, starting to bounce up and down. "We're actually on a _space ship?_"

"I wouldn't be that excited about it…but yeah," Virginia conceded. She covered her ears at her sister's excited squeal.

"This is going to be so much fun!" West squealed, hopping around like a hyperactive rabbit. "All the new people, the new training…and PARTIES!"

"Shut up," Virginia groused. "We're supposed to keep it a secret, so you CAN'T TELL ANYONE."

"Okay," West huffed. "So I need to get this stuff to my CO?"

"Probably tomorrow would be best," Virginia pointed out. "You know, when you're not hung over." She started supporting her sister back towards the base, slinging an arm over her shoulder.

"I'm not looking forward to tomorrow morning."

"Then WHY were you drinking that many beers?" West flinched at the accusing tone in Virginia's voice.

"What can I say? The corporal wanted to have some fun. He asked for it."

"I swear, your liver is shakier than a dying star," Virginia shook her head good naturedly as they walked.

"Well, I'll make sure to have enough good times for the both of us," West winked, before shutting her eyes at the migraine building in her head.

Virginia wondered if there would be any good times ahead for them with Project Freelancer. While her sister had hope, only doubt clouded her vision.


	15. Chapter 14: A Better Offer

**(A/N) Hey guys, time for an update, introducing another of the new Freelancers for Phase Two, Agent New Jersey! Expect another chapter later tonight, again, trying to make up for the delays that we're currently suffering across the board, and hopefully, now that I'm off for my "holidays" (will be spending them studying), I'll have a **_**little **_**more time to get our organisation back in gear. Anyway, introducing one of our new writers, SpoonyAzul, and I'm sure you're going to love her work!**

**Again, a quick reminder that we're still looking for writers for this fic, so if you're interested either PM me or head on over to our forum and fill out the relevant application forms. Apps close on the 1****st**** of January, so it'd be smart to get to work on it now, so you'll definitely have it in in time.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen - A Better Offer**

**Agent New Jersey**

**Written by SpoonyAzul**

* * *

"_Do what you feel in your heart to be right for you'll be criticized anyway. You'll be damned if you do, and damned if you don't." -_Eleanor Roosevelt

* * *

_Pain. She felt it everywhere. Darkness surrounded her vision and she found herself smothered in smoke, fire and twisted metal. Using her remaining arm, she slowly dragged her blood-slicked body out of the burning wreckage, only find the remains of her mother, her squad members and blood splattered on the landing pad. Up in the sky, a giant Covenant cruiser burned New Canton, her childhood home with an orbital glass strike._

_The soldier wailed in despair when a tall black figure stood over her._

_Ready to defend herself, she reached for a Magnum, but was horrified that she couldn't lift it. Her now tiny fingers couldn't wrap around the handle and her arm skinny as a twig. Then it dawns on her that she has reverted to her seven-year-old self, unable to stop the menacing figure from igniting its energy blade._

_All she could do let out an angry, almost primal roar at her own weakness as the blade came down on her..._

* * *

Her eyes snapped open as the nightmare ripped Ramona from her deep sleep. It wasn't as bad as the fever dreams during the shoulder socket installation, but it was felt real enough to get her heart racing.

For a few horrible seconds, she thought she was back on Newton III. While the events on her home world were over a year ago, the psychological scars still burned in her mind. She took several deep breaths with tears streaming down her cheeks while trying to convince herself she was in a hospital and far from the battlefield. She slowly sat up on her cot, surrounded by nothing but sterile white walls and the faint smell of antiseptic.

Then she glanced at her right arm, now a cybernetic implant, and just stared at it. The arm twitched in miniscule movements as it responded to her nerves. Twelve months ago, it was just dead weight, a useless piece of metal attached to her already battle-scarred body gave her lucid fever dreams and chronic nerve pain. When they subsided after a few months, she had drastically improved, going through the basic movements like flexing her arm and picking up something to more complex, such as tying her shoes, writing with a pen and typing on a keyboard. It had taken some adjusting to, but eventually it became a part of her body and no longer just a chunk of metal.

Her legs moved to the side of the bed before she stood on her feet, headed into the bathroom and slumped over the sink. She splashed cold water on her face and dried off her eyes with a towel when she caught her reflection in the mirror.

Years of endless battles and bloodshed had taken its toll. Her skin had gone very pale from spending so much time in her uniform. Faint dark circles formed under her green eyes from lack of sleep, which had some of the spark had gone. Her almost ghostly pallor made her deep red hair even darker, as if drenched in blood. Lifting the sleeve of her hospital raiment, she saw the scarring around the steel socket implanted in her right shoulder before her eyes shifted to the violet and sea green butterfly on her left arm.

She let out a long, drawn out sigh and stood up straight, using her fingers of her cybernetic hand to sweep a few stands behind her ear before walking across her hospital room. She proceeded to the window, stopping to take in the black inky depths of space with shimmering stars twinkling light-years away.

A light knock rapped the door before it opened, "You're up early, Ramona. Worried about your trial?"

Her mother, Dr Nora Cassidy, a rock star among cybernetic experts and infamous for her flaring temper, stood in threshold of the doorway. She had the same hair colour as Ramona, but with a few strands of grey mixed in. The older woman wore a simple blouse and dark skirt underneath a white doctor's coat with black heels.

"Not really, no," the soldier said, stepping away from door to face her mother, "It's...something else. I didn't get a good night's rest."

"There's more to it, isn't there?" Her mother walked over to her daughter and placed a hand on her shoulder, "I can tell, Ramona. You know you can't hide anything from me."

She hesitated a bit, not sure if it would be okay to let her know. She let out another sigh and finally spoke, clenching her prosthetic, "I woke up from a nightmare, Mom, a fucked-up flashback of home. Even smelled real. Makes me think I should be dead alread-"

WHAPT!

Ramona groaned in pain as Nora's hand smacked the back of her head, "There will be none of that! You should be grateful that you're still alive, you idiot!"

"You didn't have to hit me, hag!"

"What was that, you flat chested bitch!" her mother screeched like a banshee after being thrown off-balance at being called old.

"Who are you calling a billboard, you crusty relic?!"The younger woman followed in suit.

"Table tits!"

"Senile old bat!"

"Flat as a pancake!"

"Ancient as a fossil!"

A southern drawl spoke up, "Are you two quite finished?"

"What the hell do you want, you four-eyed freak?!" Both women screamed in unison at their bespectacled visitor standing in the doorway.

The man simply propped his thick rimmed glasses and sighed in exasperation, "Good lord, it's like idiots in stereo."

The young woman blinked a few times at the old man, remembering that he would sometimes visit her mother. He was in his fifties with a few grey strands in his dark hair wearing glasses around his eyes and a small beard on his chin. He wore a black suit with matching dress shoes. Every once in a while, her mother spoke to him either in person or on the phone to keep him updated on Ramona's progress.

The man strode into the room and glanced at Ramona's steel prosthetic, as if he was admiring it, before he looked the soldier in the eyes and turned to Nora, "Hmm, your work is superb as always, Dr Cassidy. Hard to believe this is the same person that I saw almost a year ago."

"Thank you," she replied, "but I doubt you came here to compliment me on my work, Doctor Church."

"No, I did not," the man said turning to Nora, "I'm here to seeking recruits for Project Freelancer, namely your daughter."

Confusion skirted around her face. She was about to go to court next week with her remaining squad and he was talking of recruiting her? How? Why?

Nora raised an eyebrow before worry took over her aging features, "Leonard, you do know that she is to..."

He interrupted with a raise of his hand, "I am well aware of her situation, Nora. I have talked to D'Atombe about this and has agreed to offer her leniency..."

"...in exchange for becoming one of your pawns." Ramona finished the sentence for him with venom drenched in her voice. She couldn't shake the fact that something was off, she was sure of it.

The man called the Director looked the young soldier in question, his face hinting at bewilderment, "You do not approve?"

"Of course I don't," the soldier said, blunt as a brick to a stained glass window, "I'm about to go to trial for disobeying orders and you just happened to show up to offer me a way out with no strings attached? Go sell your point to someone else because I ain't buying it."

After a silent moment, the older man adjusted his glasses again, increasing their glare. "Alright then, may I speak with your daughter alone?"

Nora stared at the both of them, like the room would suddenly explode, until her pager went off with a digital ringtone, "I don't see why not, I have to see about another patient." She excused herself as the doctor walked across the room and closed the door behind her.

After she left, the Director retrieved a small data-pad from his inside his suit, "That's quite an observation, marine. Now let me ask you a question: Do you know why I'm here?"

"Recruitment from what it looks like, but there's something else. Otherwise, you wouldn't just be interested in a marine court martialled for insubordination." She leaned against the bed with her arms still crossed with a hint of disdain on her face, "other than the steel arm, naturally."

"Alright then, allow me to enlighten you," The Director tapped away at his data-pad as he spoke, "Do you remember what you were supposed take off-world? What your remaining squad is being sent to prison over?" He punched one last button, and the image of a small, geometric device appeared on the screen.

Ramona immediately recognized it, but kept herself tight-lipped on a few things, "I didn't know much about it, except it was an artifact. Some eggheads dug it up and were studying it," Her lower lip curled a bit, "but it went missing after we evacuated the city."

"Yes, an unfortunate loss," the man nodded, "It just so happens my program has a similar artifact. I'm in need of someone with experience with this sort of technology. And at the moment," He pulled up a video file, probably a helmet cam, showing a wounded and bleeding soldier clutching something, before a large blue sheet of light takes shape and deflects several plasma bursts upon impact. He pauses in the middle of the last blast and looks up at her, "The most experienced person I'm aware of is standing right in front of me."

Her eyes went wide in shock upon realizing that it was her in the data-pad. The inside of her mind raced about where someone like him got that video. The UNSC made it classified!

"Are you fucking kidding me," she snarled angrily, pointing to the video, "I'm no expert on shit like that. It was pure dumb luck that thing activated when it did. You're gonna recruit me over a fluke?"

"Of course not," The footage changed to several other videos and photographs all displaying a red-headed marine in mid-combat, "To be honest I've considered your involvement for a long time. However, my resources were limited and you still laid on a hospital bed, trapped in a fever dream." He stowed the data-pad away, "However, some of those restrictions have been recently... cleared. I find myself in a position to train more operatives, and that artifact is merely a bonus, I assure you. But, if you're still so wary about us, perhaps you'd prefer to simply continue on your current path?"

The red-headed soldier tried to say something but just growled and slumped onto the bed, conflicted between two options before her. _Become a prison bitch or a bitch of the military. Decisions, decisions._ She didn't say anything for a few moments before he opened her mouth, "Say I go along with this, old man. Am I gonna fight aliens?"

A small smile curled edges of the Director's mouth. "Of course, there's no doubt in my mind."

She stood up from the cot and looked out the window, "and Insurgents?"

"When called upon, yes."

Ramona let out another drawn out sigh and ran her hand through her hair. Her mind had been made up, "Looks like you got yourself another Freelancer."

The Director nodded, "Very well. I'd enjoy what time you have left with your mother. We'll be in touch with you in due time about your deployment."

With that, the man turned on his heels and left the room before adding, "Another thing, soldier. Do NOT call me 'old man', ever. It is either 'sir' or 'Director.' You would do well to remember that in the future.

He had left the room completely when she was left to her own thoughts. She put her arm on the window and stared out to the sea of stars again.

* * *

A gun-metal grey dropship waited for her out in the hangar bay, landing for just a few moments. Ramona, no, New Jersey now- get it right, stupid - stood up from her seat, slinging over her shoulder her duffel bag packed with necessities and what little possessions she had left. She had read her orders the day before and learned her codename.

_Agent New Jersey? Doesn't exactly roll off the tongue. Hmm, Jersey sounds better. I can picture people already calling me that._

She was alone when the pelican landed. Her mother had already said her goodbyes. And, by goodbyes, she did it in the form of the usual mother-daughter screaming, swearing, insults and name calling. Then she had burst into tears and embraced her daughter, the only family she had left.

She took a deep breath and stepped inside the Pelican, not once looking back as the rear bay doors closed behind her. She sat in her seat and put on her safety harness.

She noticed the dark-haired young man sitting across from her, a manic grin plastered on his face and an excited glint in his sky blue eyes. He didn't seem to notice her walking in and sitting down, but he was daydreaming possibly about being a hero or a badass in the Project. Kinda cute, she thought with a small smile.

After a few minutes, she sighed in relief. The Director had kept his word. She was granted leniency and kept from going to prison. He had given her another chance to fight the bastards that burned her homeworld to the ground. She'd give them fifty shit-tons of payback for it, like everyone who had ever lost a loved one to the Covenant. Then she thought of the Insurgents, defectors from the UNSC and her father, pulling out her butterfly knife in contemplation. She unfolded it, made of steel with a butterfly engraved in the blade.

It was the last thing he gave her before her last deployment, before he went MIA while spying on Insurgents.

Jersey glanced down at her blade before tucking it away. Maybe she could find answers with the Innies, as to what happened on Newton III and why her commanding officer betrayed her and her squad. If not, she would settle on taking vengeance with the Covenant instead.


	16. Chapter 15: A Mighty Flighty Mind

**(A/N) Hey guys, time for the second update of the day, as our attempts continue to make up for our recent delays. Have handed in my essays and currently chilling in the college library while I wait for my friends to come back into town, after they headed home when I went fencing. Little titbit of info for y'all. This chapter introduces both another new character and another new writer, Agent Kentucky, aka The Boombringer, written by the sensational Gumby1011. Not gonna lie to you guys, I love Kent, and you guys are going to love him too. We've got some great chapters in store! Again, apps for the second half of this fic are open until the 1****st**** of January. You know what to do.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen - A Mighty Flighty Mind**

**Agent Kentucky**

**Written by Gumby1011**

* * *

_"Boom, crush. Night, losers. Winning, duh." _- Charlie Sheen

* * *

The black-haired man bounced excitedly in his seat, a grin stretching ear to ear as he sat in the Pelicans' troop bay. Oh man, it was going to be absolutely fantastic! True, he may not have been sure of what Project Freelancer _was_, exactly, but the fact that they had gone so far as to solve the problem he'd been hackin' away at for nearly four years just to get him onboard? That told him that they really seem to need him!

And the man they sent to collect him had been so quick to go along with the suggestion, too… The only plausible explanation was that someone had finally recognized his talent, and if that was the case, they'd be looking to hire the best damn demoman the UNSC had ever seen! And if the name of their ship, -_Mother of Invention, _was it?- yeah, that was the one. Well, if it was anything to go by, then these guys would have all sorts of toys for him to play with! Chemistry labs and fuse components and C-4 and C-7 and high-yield explosive formulae and plasticizers and grenade launcher rounds to scavenge and maybe even some of those everyday products that make _such _a good napalm when properly prepared!

Look out, aliens! Look out, galaxy! They were about to have to deal with _him!_ Curt- Wait wait wait, how could he forget? He chuckled at himself. He was now to be known by his new codename (codename. HA!): Kentucky. He liked the sound of it. Freelancer Agent Kentucky. The Boombringer! Professional badass! He put on a deliberately cocky grin and tried it out. "But you can call be Kent, for short."

"Thanks, I'll be sure to remember that."

The agent jumped in his seat, surprised at the sudden interruption. "Huh?" His head whipped around the troop bay until they settled on a woman sitting across from him. "Oh! Um, sorry, I didn't see you there."

She smirked at him and brushed a strand of red hair out of her face before answering. "Yeah, and it only took you… Half an hour? Maybe a little longer? I mean, I've been here the whole time." Kentucky couldn't help but notice the arm she had used (the right one) was a prosthetic. And a _much_ better built one than the units he'd seen on soldiers before. "I'm New Jersey, by the way."

"Well, it is just a _pleasure_ to meet ya, Joooiiisey." Kent laughed as soon as he finished mimicking the old Earth accent. A glint of light caught his eye, and he looked down to see a closed butterfly knife in the girl's hand. "Whoa now, I thought toys like that were on the "do not carry" list for airlines these days!" he shot with a grin.

Jersey just raised an eyebrow, half smiling. "Uh huh." Without even breaking her gaze, she flipped the knife around her robotic hand a couple of times, folding and unfolding it quicker than her audience's eyes could follow. After a few moments the knife returned to rest in the palm of her hand. "You want to try and take it?"

Kent just chuckled again. "Nah, it's cool. Hell, I'm in no place to judge you there." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small device with two buttons and a trigger on it. "Some things you just can't trust to the armament boys, right?" He put the detonator away before continuing. "So, where'd you get a number like that, anyways? It custom?"

Jersey looked down at the blade and shrugged. "I don't really know. Maybe? It was a gift." She smiled as she ran a finger over the small butterfly emblem etched in the blade. "My dad got it for me, just before he shipped out. Made me feel a bit better, to be honest... He hasn't come back yet..." She leaned back and sighed. "God, I'm not going to be able to stop worrying about Mom, now." After a few awkward moments, she looked back at Kentucky. "How about you?"

Kent grinned, a false look of confusion creeping over his features. "Why would I worry about your family? I hardly know 'em!"

The woman shot him a disapproving look. "You know what I meant."

Kent shrugged. "What, my kin? Hmm… that's a damn long answer you're asking for."

"Well, I've got time." The woman replied, leaning back in her seat.

"Okey dokey then! First off: we're nothing special. Belt miners. We blew up asteroids and scooped up the ore, that sort of thing. Used to live out in the Draconian Fleet, mining station four, born and raised. Even got the ink to prove it!" The man stood up, turned around, and without hesitation pulled his UNSC shirt off, revealing a tattoo covering his back of-

"I-… Is that a dragon eating an asteroid?" Jersey gawked in disbelief.

"Yeah. Totally."

She blinked twice. "… Alright, let me rephrase that, _why_ is a dragon eating an asteroid?"

Kent rolled his eyes as he turned around. "Uh, because it's friggin' _awesome?_ And it's also the station's flag so, you know, patriotism bonus. Anyways, we were makin' an hones-"

"Um…"

"What?"

"Could you maybe put your shirt back on?" Jersey's face had started to turn red.

_Huh. That is adorable. _Kent shrugged, a grin back on his face. "Sure thing, my bad." He continued as soon as his garb returned to its rightful place. "So anyway, those douche-bag aliens forced us out of house and home, right?

* * *

_The black-haired young man watched from the cargo ship's observation deck as the massive violet ships finally opened up on the distant station, purple orbs and blue beams lancing into it. He could scarcely believe it. His home of nineteen years, being ripped apart seemingly just because the creatures felt like it. _

_But all the same, anybody who could have been saved had already been saved, with only a couple Banshees moving towards their escaping ship. They must have been focusing on the station's destruction. The younger man looks up at the older man. "Pops. Weren't you gonna…?"_

"_We wait until we're told. Some folks still need to say their goodbyes." The older man replied._

_Just then, a radio crackled to life. "Alright, Bonomo. Burst it."_

_The older man sighed, closed his eyes, and pushed a button on the large console with the antenna. A blinding flash of light consumed the old mining platform and blew apart the violet ships, before their own craft jumped into slip-space, barely escaping the blast._

_The younger man bowed his head. "Goodbye."_

* * *

Kent paused for a moment. "So… we equalized _that_… But then I was out of a job, so I thought 'Fuck it! I'll blow up more aliens!' Joined the marines, right? Was able to pay for my family to move further from the front, even. But… I mean, you still worry about them."

Jersey nodded. "Yeah, you do…"

"So I thought I could funnel enough money home to maybe get them to the inner colonies. Anyways, blah blah blah, stuff blew up-"

* * *

_As the smoke cleared, the grunts frantically looked around, confused that the humans had seemingly vanished. They looked about, but nothing doing! The squad leader looked around, before spotting the little gray canister the smoke had shot out of lying on the ground. After letting out a high pitched growl, it stomped on the hollow shell, crushing it underfoot. Just then, another grunt noticed a little red light blinking on the leader's methane tank. __**"Um, boss?"**_

_Before he could say a word more, half of the squad's methane tanks detonated, killing most of them. The last few screamed and ran about on fire for a moment or two before the flames roasted their lungs. Meanwhile, the black-haired marine was crouched in a foxhole, the rest of his squad safe behind cover. He was giggling like a madman. "Suck it, munchkins!" He shouted, grinning._

* * *

"-some other stuff blew up-"

* * *

_The black-haired marine dropped a fairly heavy metal tube as he sprinted from the hostile, praying that the brute's aim would remain as abysmal as it had already proven. The shots flew wide of him as he heard the grinding wheels of the Chopper coming closer. He counted down in his head, the detonator in hand. _

_Three… Two… One…_

_He pulled the trigger on the detonator, setting the tube-charge off just as the Chopper's seat hovered over it. The concussive force sent the seat flying over the one large wheel, as if a giant hand had pulled a lever. The brute itself lost consciousness when his head hit the earth. Then the bladed wheel finished the job in spectacularly gory style. After ensuring he wasn't going to be crushed by falling debris, the marine fell to his knees, exhausted from the running, but smiling at his work. "Oh, dear, I appear to have made quite a mess," he chuckled._

"-then just recently-"

_The black-haired marine grinned from behind the wheel of a huge eighteen-wheeler, as he came screaming up to the on-ramp. He didn't know all the nuances of driving, per-say, but he'd seen enough action movies to stir up a rough idea. He did wish he hadn't caused the engine to start smoking, though. He roared down the overpass, rapidly approaching the Scarab that was harassing –nay, wasting- the human platoon on the highway below._

_When he was certain he'd secured a good launch angle, he propped the door open and wrenched on the steering wheel. Then he bailed out of the careening truck and watched as it went flying over the side of the overpass, and collided with the body of the metal giant. He'd got an even better shot than he'd hoped! The trailer of the truck had become wedged into the troop-bay, and the Scarab struggled to stay standing with the extra weight. The marine coughed a few times before standing up shakily on the overpass, admiring his work below. "YEAH! How ya like my driving, asshole!?" he yelled, his head thrown back. Then he struck the detonator, and lit the truck's trailer full of propane alight._

* * *

"-and next thing I know I get this guy in a blue ODST suit with some sick-ass boomers strapped to his chest shows up, asking if I want some sort of promotion. And last thing I heard, the Bugs had gotten pretty close to the folks back home, so I'm all like:"

* * *

"_I'm gonna be honest, Florida, I like your style. And I REALLY like how someone finally noticed my sick skills." The black-haired marine nodded as he spoke, a hand to his chin. "I'm awfully tempted, but… I've got a request I'd like to see granted, first."_

_The blue-armoured man nodded, his face imperceptible from behind his helmet. "Well sonny, I'll see what I can do for you. Shoot."_

_The black-haired man walked over to his small desk, and retrieved a small framed photo of two black-haired teenagers, a woman, and a one-eyed man. "I've got a family, right? They're living on Coral currently, but…" the marine walks over to a table where several documents labelled "top secret" lay. He picked one up and brought it back over. "I know I'm not supposed to have these, but I know a guy. Sue me. I'm lookin' out for me and mine. Says here that Covvie forces are estimated to be within striking range of Coral within a year." _

_He looked back up at Florida. "Frankly boss, my folks have already outlived one invasion. I'm not sure they could pull it off again. I need your help. If you can get them somewhere safe, you'll have your freelancer."_

_It was dead silent in the room for a good five minutes. Kent shifted his weight nervously, unable to read Florida's face through his visor. Then the agent looked back up, with something the marine couldn't quite identify straining the optimism in his voice. "Son… we'll have your folks on the next shuttle to Earth herself, or my name isn't Agent Florida!"_

* * *

"But his name isn't Agent Florida." Jersey tilted her head.

"What?"

"That's just a codename."

A few moments of awkward silence hung in the air, as Kent regained his train of thought. "… Anyways, to finally answer your question, _yes._ I will miss them. But I'll miss them a lot less from me being absent than from them being dead."

Jersey shrugged as she digested all of the information she'd just heard. "Yeah, I guess that makes sense." Then it hit her. "Wait a minute, I thought we weren't supposed to talk too much about our pasts?"

Kent had himself a hearty laugh over this. "Pfffffff, what? Nah, man that's gotta be one of the stupidest rules I've ever heard." Then his grin took on a smug twist. "And besides, it's not like they're gonna kick me out for something like that. Not when _I'm _so valuable that they sent one of their _top agents_ just to get me to tag along!"

Jersey just shrugged. "I wouldn't be too sure about that. I got recruited by the Director himself." Now it was her turn to shoot a smug smirk at her co-passenger

Kent jumped up and covered his chest with both hands. "Oh god, right in the pridey bits!" The act managed to get a giggle out of Jersey.

But of course, that was the exact moment a concealed monitor in the corner of the troop-bay decided to turn on. **"**_**Ahem**_**."**

Kent spun around in surprise, and was greeted by the image of an older man with glasses and faded green eyes. "OH! Sorry, my bad." He quickly sat back down on his seat and buckled his harness.

The man seemed to bore holes in Kent's head from behind suspiciously glare-filled lenses. **"Well, if you're done wasting our time, then I feel the need to inform you both that you'll be arriving on-board the **_**Mother of Invention **_**shortly. You are to depart your Pelican and wait with the other recruits for agents North Dakota and Florida. They'll be guiding you on your introduction to this ship. Understood?"**

The two recruits both nodded, eager to explore their new home.

**"Good."** Without a word more, The Director looked at someone off-screen, and the feed cut out.

Jersey shifted her weight some. "Wow. What a fuckin' _douche_."

Kent just chuckled. The man had obviously been one of those "I take my job much too seriously" types. "I know, right? _Jeez_!"


	17. Chapter 16: Everything Old

**(A/N) Hey guys, time for a new chapter update! Sorry about the delay, couldn't upload the chapter last night because my internet's gone at home, but hopefully it'll get fixed soon, otherwise weekend updates may be on hiatus for a while. But hopefully that won't be an issue. Anyway, this update features a return for Casaric, but sadly, not for Private Killian Jay. No…instead we have **_**Sergeant**_** Killian Jay, making his triumphant début! Hope you're all excited!**

**Again, just a little reminder to everyone, we're still looking for writers to apply for characters for the second half of Phase Two: Betrayal. If you're interested, just head on over to our forum and fill out an Author Application Form and the relevant Character Application Form, or just PM me for more info. Just remember, the deadline is January 1****st****, 2014, so I'd get started on it if I were you, just to be on the safe side!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen – Everything Old…**

**Killian Jay – Sergeant, Medic**

**Written by Casaric**

* * *

"_Being back on the ship, it felt blissful. Like an old friend that you always wanted to see again...and then you did. Sure, I was covered in blood by the end of the week, but still, bliss!" –_ Sergeant Killian Jay (Extract taken from audio logs).

* * *

Killian looked on, almost in a trance, as the latest batch of agents streamed out of their Pelicans and into the hangar, stretching their limbs and conversing amongst one other. It felt... surreal. Looking around, the MoI was the same ship she had been when he had left, and most of the same old people still went about their same old jobs. It was almost as if the last few months hadn't even happened.

The medic looked down at himself, gazing at the white, reflective surface of his new armour. But then again, a lot had happened in those few short months.

Killian had been transferred out of the program once it had gone under review, and was placed in a unit on an active front against the Insurrection in the Eridanus system, serving as a field medic for UNSC troopers. During that time he learned the following:

1. Don't get shot.

2. The best way not to get shot is to shoot the person shooting you.

3. How to use a gun.

4. Bio-Foam is the field medic's best friend.

5. Don't get shot.

6. Tye-Dye is not an appropriate camo choice.

7. Pull the pin, count to five three and throw it.

8. Don't get shot.

He wouldn't say that it was the most enjoyable learning experience, but he's not really one to complain. He had survived his stint of action, which was more than could be said for a lot of the soldiers out there, despite his best attempts. Project Freelancer might have gone on tougher missions and taken higher risks than the UNSC soldiers that he had been attached to, but few enough of them had died. Killian had grown used to the Freelancer situation, and working amongst the regular UNSC troops had changed him. He had grown up. And hell, they did promote him, after all.

"Sergeant...seerrggeant..." Killian rolled the word around in his mouth, still getting accustomed to his new rank.

"This is Pilot 479er to Sarcastic Jackass. Sarcastic Jackass, please respond."

Killian was pulled out of his thoughts by a familiar voice and a light shove that sent him stumbling forward for a couple feet, and the sense that he had returned home re-emerged, stronger than ever.

"Nice to see you too." Killian said as he attempted to regain his balance, turning around to greet his friend with a warm smile on his face.

The pilot shook her head in mock-exasperation and sighed. "What no sarcastic remark? No witty banter?"

"I'm sure I'll think of something," Killian replied with a shrug. "So…when did you get back?"

"Who do you think's flying the Director's newest toys?" The pilot's amused tone was all too clear, even with her features hidden behind her helmet.

The medic shook his head, his visor similarly hiding his smirk. "Honestly, I have no idea."

* * *

Killian had been expecting the call. He just hadn't known when to expect it. So when the intercom blared to life in the hangar, requesting Killian's immediate presence in the Director's office, he was mildly surprised at the promptness of the order, but dealt with it in good grace. Saying his goodbyes to 479er, with the promise to continue their conversation at a later date, Killian left the hangar area and made for the office of the Director.

It was something akin to muscle memory, the medic thought, as he made his way down the halls of the ship, the layout of which he long ago memorized. Even after being gone for what was in his mind as an eternity, every turn was as fresh in his mind as it had been the day he left.

Once again lost in his thoughts, the field medic didn't notice the door until his helmet was firmly planted into it, his usual smoothness and style making itself seen, eager to inform the rest of the MoI that Killian was the same klutz that he had always been, even with his recent promotion.

Shaking off the dizzy feeling he got from his self-rendered blow to the head, Killian cracked his neck, adjusted his posture, swallowed nervously, and entered the Director's office.

* * *

Killian walked back out of the Director's office, silent, and staring at data-pad, scrolling through the new agents' profiles as he walked the halls towards the med-bay, muttering to himself while he read.

"...Nebraska...odd...New Jersey...the whole arm?...Colorado...mad much?...Nevada...ONI? Really?...Kentucky...," Killian stopped and mentally face-palmed. "Great, just what we need, another Georgia...West Virginia...because that's exactly what we need, more family drama..." Killian ran a hand down his visor in irritation. He knew that the agents were crazy. Who else but the mentally unstable would voluntarily do a Freelancer's job? But the Director may just have a few screws loose if he's pulling in people like this. Killian thought to himself, as he approached the med-bay doors, his head turning upwards in time to stop another collision.

He then released a long sigh. "Time to talk to the crazy people..."And with that said, he opened the doors, and went inside.

* * *

Killian sat down with a sigh, trying to get as comfortable as possible in the leather chair while still in his armour. The check-ups had taken considerably longer than he had wanted them to. Crazy people talk too much.

"What did you find out?" the Director asked, standing across the room, gazing out into the depths of space as though he was only barely conscious of Killian's presence.

Killian shrugged, then realised that the Director wouldn't pick up on that motion, given that he wasn't looking at him. "Nothing that you didn't already know, I'm sure, sir. I'd tell you to be careful of what you say around Nebraska, and maybe Colorado, but that would undoubtedly go ignored."

"Anything _else_, Killian?" The Director asked testily, irritation clear in his voice at his underling's insubordination.

"Yes, actually," Killian said, standing from his seat and stretching. "I'm going to need a mechanic in the event of New Jersey's prosthetic becoming damaged. I know how to fix _humans_, but robots, even robot arms, are more than a little outside my job description."

"I'll have one sent down to the med-bay to be briefed by you later this week," the Director replied, still looking out into space, having not so much as glanced at Killian throughout the entirety of this conversation.

"Thank you, Director."

There was a lull in what could vaguely be called the conversation, Killian waiting to be dismissed, the Director simply waiting, although for what, the medic had no idea.

"...Killian, about the incident...," the Director began, hesitantly.

"There was no incident, sir." Killian interrupted him before he could really begin, his voice impassive. "There was only the failure of one man to see the signs of madness. Ark was already volatile, as both myself and the Counselor had reported, and being in the project only made his condition worsen. Sir...you are my leader, and I will follow you to hell and back if you order me to...but as far as I'm concerned, you are, and always will be, a murderer, sir."

There was another pause, and Killian fancied that he saw the Director's jaw clench at his words, his own fists curling slightly, before the Director slowly turned around to him and nodded towards the nearest door.

"...You are dismissed, Sergeant."


	18. Chapter 17: Welcome Aboard

**(A/N) Hey guys, time for the latest Phase Two: Betrayal update, featuring the full cast of new Freelancers, brought to you by anna1795 through the very first POV chapter for the second Virginia, West, as Project Freelancer finally get back on track! Just a quick reminder, as before, that we're still looking for writers and characters for the second half of this fic, so if you're interested head on over to our forum and fill out the relevant application forms or get a PM over to me for more info. Just remember that apps close on the 1st of January, 2014!**

**Enjoy!**

**Chapter Seventeen – Welcome Aboard**

**Agent West Virginia**

**Written by anna1795**

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_"It is wonderful how much time good people spend fighting the devil. If they would only expend the same amount of energy loving their fellow men, the devil would die in his own tracks of ennui." - _Helen Keller

* * *

West was practically bouncing in her seat on the Pelican as it flew through empty space on the way to her new home for the foreseeable future. It had nothing to do with turbulence, but from the energy and excitement coursing through her. Finally, getting away from regular grunt work and onto something a little more her style: actually going after Innies. Oh, West wasn't a fool or bloodthirsty, just excited and happy to go into battle when she knew it was helping people.

**"You're bouncing around so much, I keep wondering if we've hit an asteroid field!"** the pilot, who had introduced herself as 201-PT, commented through the ship's radio. It wasn't a reprimand per se, just a good-natured observation.

"Oh, you know; just excited and all that," she called back up to her. "Just good to go someplace different, meet new people, am I right?"

**"Sure, I getcha,"** she responded back in kind. **"Just don't be too excited; you won't have enough energy for later on."**

"I'll remember that, thanks!"

There wasn't anyone else in the Pelican, unfortunately, so West didn't have any sort of idea what sort of people would be in the Project, aside from her sister. Were they just like her, pretty much an Amazon goddess who inspired fear in all those around her? Were they like the Greek gods of old that she had heard about from Earth's ancient mythology, tall and brawny with an insatiable blood thirst and libido? Were they super-smart geniuses, top of the class and good with weapons, like she herself was? Whatever the case, they'd probably all be superheroes, with more drama than a space opera.

Maybe there'd be some cute boys there.

The Pelican took a steep bank, and West held onto her harness tightly while her legs dangled in mid-air. **"Sorry!"** 201-PTshouted to her, a little too cheerfully. **"Asteroid. Had to dodge it."**

"No worries!" West happily ignored her churning stomach. "How far away are we?"

**"3-2-1…Ma'am, welcome to the **_**Mother of Invention**_**!"**

West shoved her harness off and climbed towards a window. A behemoth of a ship was quickly approaching, coloured in space by lights and flitting ships, maintaining the outer hull. Other ships flitted in and out of the main hangar that they were heading towards, and she could see the static- blue barrier blocking the vacuum of space from compromising the pressurized interior of the ship.

**"I'd hang on, if I were you!"** 201-PT shouted back to West. **"I always do my lucky manoeuvre before going in."** West ran back to her seat, and just in time too. She gave a whoop of delight as PT shouted, **"And… DO A BARREL ROLL!"**

The Pelican turned completely upside down, and West felt her stomach try to lurch up into her throat before the spacecraft righted itself again. There came a groan over the radio, but PT was cleared for landing. West felt the pressure in the Pelican changed as they docked, and she unlatched her harness again when PT came back to shoo her off. She grabbed her duffel bag and scooted down the ramp and into the bay. Personnel ran to and fro, loading supplies onto the ship and carrying reports here and there. There was a small crowd of non-armoured people in a corner, and West bounced over to join them, fuelled by the adrenaline from the barrel roll.

"Hi there!" she greeted them as she got to the fringe of the group of six other people. One of them, with long auburn hair, turned to look at her and blinked her green eyes twice.

"Umm, hello to you too." She had a very confused look on her face, but extended one hand for a handshake. "I'm New Jersey. And you?"

West took the extended hand and let go of it in shock. Had it just been her, or was the hand cold and metallic? She looked down and saw that New Jersey's hand, as well as her entire arm, was a prosthetic limb. Jersey saw the reaction and pulled her hand back slightly, but West got excited, and was quick to the punch. "No, no, it's fine! Cool robot arm." She gave a friendly smile and took Jersey's hand again. "I'm West Virginia." Jersey looked slightly shocked, but returned the smile. She automatically jumped up ten places in West's book of friends.

There came a bit of a snort, drawing West's attention to another woman in the group. She had brown hair and green eyes, which were narrowed at West for some reason; she couldn't imagine why. She and Jersey detached, and she held out a hand to the shorter, brown-haired woman. "Who're you?" she asked, putting a smile on her face. It was not returned.

"Colorado," the shorter woman replied curtly, giving a single hand shake before releasing. She looked up at West's blonde hair and the black strand that floated in front of her face. West fought the urge to push the dyed strand behind her ear.

"Don't mind 'Rado," a tall man pushed past the shorter woman and gave West a smirk-grin. He had brown hair neatly brushed and twinkling grey eyes. "She's a little bit of a spoil sport. I'm Nebraska." Ignoring an irritated snort from 'Rado, Nebraska took West's hand in a gentle handshake. Her smile returned, which was reflected in Neb's eyes.

Another woman, a little shorter but athletically built and with short, black hair, also came forward and nearly shoved Neb out of the way to excitedly shake West's hand. "Hi there!" she exclaimed happily. "I'm Nevada, but call me Nev, please!"

"Then you can just call me West," West replied, responding in kind to the handshake. A guy with dark hair gave her a friendly wink and introduced himself as Kentucky. His friend, tall and muscly, was introduced as Utah, and he gave her a friendly yet somewhat vacant "Hello!" West could tell that this group was going to be very interesting and loads of fun…for the most part ('Rado didn't count just yet).

Another Pelican arrived in the hangar with a roar, blowing all their hair in a whirlwind before the craft shut off. The ramp lowered, and a pale woman with cropped brown hair staggered off the ship slightly, looking shy. She shuffled over to the other new Freelancers, looking at the papers in her hand, and gave them a small wave. "Hi," she said softly. "I'm Connecticut."

West offered a hand to Connecticut. "I'm West Virginia, but you can call me West." She introduced the others to her, ignoring Colorado's glower. "Nice to meet you."

Connecticut offered her a smile, though it seemed weak and rather forced. West didn't pay much mind to it, instead looking over to where a set of doors opened and two men in armour came forward. The one in dark purple armour had platinum blonde hair and a bright smile on his face, youthful and excited. The other, in thinner blue armour and sporting greying hair, also had a smile, but was slightly marred with the age lines across his face. Still, they both exuded a friendly aura that acted like a magnet to West, automatically pulling her towards them. She was sure that they knew her sister as well.

"Hi there," the blonde greeted them first, and the hodge-podge group focused their attention on the newcomers. "Welcome to the _Mother of Invention_. I'm North Dakota, but you can just call me North."

"I'm Florida," the older man greeted them as well. "We're here to take you on a tour of the ship and talk about Project Freelancer with you guys. Feel free to ask any questions." He caught West's eye, gave her a bright smile, and nudged North. The taller blonde looked to where Florida was pointing subtly, his eyes widened, and he gave North a meaningful glance before nodding at West. Florida coughed and said, "If you want to follow us, let's get started!"

West bounced in the middle of the group with Nev, led by Nebraska and Jersey, and followed up by Connecticut, Kentucky, and Colorado. Florida and North were taking turns explaining different stuff, most of which went in West's ear and out the other. She was too busy looking through the steel-grey hallways at all of the locations. There was a mess hall, then the locker rooms, then the pool. They started passing by a series of doors close together with plaques on them, when one of them opened and two men in white armour came out. One, the shorter of the two, had a head of thick brown hair and the most AWESOME moustache that West had seen. She just barely resisted the urge to touch it. The other, a behemoth, was pretty much a wall of muscle, with a bald head and fierce eyes.

"Oh, hey Wyoming! You too, Maine!" Florida greeted them cheerfully. "We're just taking the new guys around the ship."

The shorter of the two cast an appraising eye over their heads, and West stared back at him evenly. The lip-caterpillar gave the slightest twitch. "Don't seem like too much to me," he said in a thick British accent, then gave a shrug. "Just as long as they stay out of the way and they know your place. Your thoughts, Maine?" The giant Maine seemed to give a growl, before only responding with a deep "Yep." His gaze seemed mostly focused on Utah, who was fairly close in size and strength.

"Hey, dude!" Kentucky spoke up from the rear of the group. "Sweet 'stache!" Wyoming's face crinkled with into a wry grin before tipping his head and stalked off, Maine close behind him.

"Yeah, some people here can be…interesting," North said after a minute of thought. "You'll make your own friends while you're here, though, and it helps with being a team."

"You've already been assigned rooms further down here," Florida pointed to the furthest end of the rooms. "Everyone except for…Utah?" Utah came forward with a happy "That's me", and Florida pointed him to a room with a plaque that had Utah's name and someone named "Georgia" in the same room. "You're here with our resident technician."

"Excuse me," someone tapped her shoulder, and West turned to see North Dakota looking down at her. "You're West Virginia, right?" She nodded excitedly. "Thought so. You look like Virginia." He pointed to a door behind him with a smile. "You get to bunk with her. That cool?"

"Always happy to be around my big sis," West responded happily, and she opened the door. There was a neatly made bed in one corner of the room and a mattress on the floor of the opposite end. Since the area occupied with the solitary mattress had various pictures and drawings, she tossed her bag hastily onto the unoccupied bed and shut the door.

"We're all good?" North asked the new Freelancers as they finished dropping off their bags and learning who their roommates were. Connecticut seemed slightly overwhelmed by Nevada's forthrightness; Nebraska had that same calm smile while Kentucky looked positively gleeful; and New Jersey scooted away from Colorado quickly as they left their own room, gravitating more towards West. North did a once-over of the crowd, checked that Florida and Utah were back, then started leading them further through the ship.

"Now, we're gonna take you to get your armour fitted," Florida explained as they started making their way towards a set of double-doors. "The techs may be a little rough with you, but you won't have to bother with them much. The armour's gonna be with you for the rest of your stint in Freelancer, and it's gonna save your skin more times than you can count."

As they walked through into a bright white room, a group of people in technician's colours paired off and approached the new Freelancers, taking them one by one to various stations. An older man and a grey-haired woman almost shoved West to where a crate sat with a series of tools on a bench. They didn't say much, only yanking on limbs that they wanted her to stretch out so they could check their measurements and giving her hair a strange look, like they didn't approve. Finally, with a curt nod, the old man snapped for West to hurry into a black body suit they offered her so that she could get her armour on. She took it and looked around for some form of restroom to change into.

"Umm, is there any way that I can go someplace to change in privacy?" she asked. With a disgruntled snort, the old man pulled a thin nylon curtain around the station and stood outside while his female counterpart watched West with hawk-like intensity. She hurriedly stripped and shimmied her way into the body suit, not really liking the way that it squeezed her chest and legs. She felt especially self-conscious with the female technician still looking at her like that. The woman helped her zip it up, grabbed her clothes, and shoved them down some sort of chute.

"They'll be cleaned and returned to you at a later time," she said to West's protesting gasp, then shoved the nylon curtain back so that the other technician could help open the crate. Inside were a jumble of bright green pieces with neon orange highlights, which they took out and started to force her into. West didn't really know why they were so glum about it, but she didn't complain as the chest piece dragged down her chest uncomfortably before sitting just right. The arm pieces fit just right, as did the gloves and the boots. It was at the leg armour that the female technician started grumbling with the difficulty of latching the pieces together.

"Geez, lose a little weight," West heard her mutter under her breath, and she got that self-conscious feeling again before determinedly shoving it down. Finally, a green helmet with an orange stripe down the centre and an amber visor was shoved into her hands, and she retreated back to the safe companionship of Florida and North with a quick thank-you to the techs.

Connecticut had slightly bulkier chocolate-brown armour and a helmet that looked sort of like a human face, and Colorado had slightly bulkier blue and white armour with a helmet that looked like a thick-bearded guy, which West immediately mentally dubbed the "goat armour". The others had Mark VI armour just like West, but with different colour schemes: Nevada in green and black, Utah in white, Jersey in orange, Nebraska in grey and white.

"Great!" North said happily. "That didn't take long at-" He was cut off by a couple of raised voices from another room beyond theirs, and an angry blonde woman in orchid armour stalked through the door without a helmet, practically seething. "Umm, South, are you okay?"

"Yeah, just fan-fucking-tastic," the woman called South grumbled, before she stood still and looked at the new people in armour. "These are the recruits?" she asked incredulously. She didn't sound very impressed. Did she have some sort of problem with them?

"Yeah, these are the new guys," Florida said with a smile, though it seemed to West that it was rather forced, like he didn't much like talking to South. "They look pretty impressive, huh?"

"Whatever," South flipped her hair. "I bet they won't even make it into the top ten, let alone the top six." West, and pretty much everyone else in the new group, looked at each other confusedly. Top ten? Top six?

"Oh, South is talking about the Leaderboard," North explained to the group. "It shows your ranking in the Project based on skill, number of kills, your ability to lead and follow orders-"

"It basically shows who's the best and who's the worst," South said with a sneer on her face. "It's used to keep the worst of us in their place, and to decide who's to be assigned on particular missions."

"So," Colorado spoke up finally, "you don't think we have what it takes to be the best of the best?" West could tell that the shorter agent was practically seething.

South gave a snicker. "I don't think, I KNOW," she emphasized. "You're just going to get bounced off the board faster than a plasma bolt."

"That's not very fair!" West had finally mustered up the guts to move a step closer to South and look at the other blonde, despite North's and Florida's exchanged glance. "You haven't even seen what we can do yet."

"It's not like you'll be bringing anything new to the team," South pointed out, looking down at the shorter West Virginia, particularly her dyed hair streak. "What exactly are YOU good at, small fry?"

"She's best at distracting enemy soldiers so that I can take a shot at them," a dangerous female voice murmured behind South. Everyone craned their heads and South whipped around to see a tall (shorter than South by a little bit), skinny woman in black clothes, with long black hair and a neon-blue streak staring at the antagonizing Agent with fierce blue eyes. "She's also good at making friends and helping others…not something that you're used to doing, South."

"Piss off, _hermit_," South growled down at the unarmoured agent who had her arms crossed. "I think I'm a pretty good judge of abilities at this point."

"You're not even giving them a chance," her opponent pointed out calmly. "We gave you guys a chance when you got here, didn't we? They might just surprise us like you did."

South snarled as the dark-haired woman walked past her and up to where Florida and North stood. "It looks like they've got a lot to offer, don't you think?" she asked, and they nodded fervently. She turned to the new guys. "I'll be eager to see what you can do," she said to them before walking towards the door. West stopped her sister partway there and hugged her tightly before releasing her and exchanging a grin with her older sister's slight smile. She clapped her hand on West's shoulder before leaving again.

South had gone by the time West reunited with the group. North had introduced Virginia to the group while she was gone, and there was some quiet muttering going on; North and Florida were having a brief conversation, Colorado was saying something like "we can handle ourselves" to CT, and Nevada, Kentucky, Jersey, and Nebraska were all having their own conversation in a huddle. Utah was just standing on his own, his smile slightly smaller as he processed the argument that had just gone on in front of him.

"Anyways," North finally said, "time to show you the last place for today. Let's get going," he ushered them along, and they hurried away from the site of the argument and further down the maze of hallways to where there were a set of stairs that led up to a set of doors. They made their way through obediently, and West entered a room with a glass wall overlooking another, much larger room. It was rather plain, with high-reaching walls and a stone floor made up of neat squares.

"This is the training room," North explained as they stood in a neat line. "It's where we face off against various obstacles or each other to improve on our abilities. There are also occasional grudge matches in here for people who need to blow off some steam. Our on-board A.I., F.I.L.S.S., monitors the training room, provides practice weapons, and sets up obstacles for our training in here."

Florida took the mantle as North walked out the door for no apparent reason. "Further down the road, you guys will be given armour enhancements to help you on simulation missions and in real fights against the aliens and Insurrectionists. You'll test them out and practice with them here."

Kent eagerly shot his hand up into the air like an excited school boy. "Excuse me, sir," he asked politely, "What sort of enhancements are available?"

"Excellent question, laddy!" Florida exclaimed, and West saw Colorado roll her eyes in annoyance. "You won't actually get to choose your enhancement; it'll be assigned to you by the Director and the Counselor. It can be anything from a Domed Energy Shield to a Speed Unit, to a Camouflage Unit, to an Invisibility Unit, and so much more!" West's heart escalated at the thought of receiving such a power boost to help in a fight. She thought briefly about what sort of enhancement her sister had before she noticed a figure in dark purple armour walk out onto the training room floor below.

North gave Florida a thumb's up, and the older man turned back to them with a smile. "We wanted to see if one of you wanted to try out against North while were here, see what the training room is all about. You'll be going up against North in a gun fight with paint rounds. Who wants a go?"

"Me," Colorado immediately said, stepping forward. West could sense the annoyance and irritation rolling off the shorter woman in near-palpable waves. Colorado directed her through the door while the ones left behind pressed themselves up eagerly against the window. West got a good look down at the training floor, where North was doing some stretching while a stone table laden with weapons sprung up in front of him, and she noticed all the chips in the floor. Her mind started racing all of a sudden.

_Virginia gave a startled yelp as she toppled off a pillar while trying to aim her bow at a moving clay target, aggravating an old back injury and leaving her winded for a second-_

_Virginia, fully clad in armour, snarling while her armour froze up as someone in aquamarine armour tossed her aside bodily-_

"Hey," someone touched West's arm, and she turned to see New Jersey's helmeted face looking back at her. "You okay? You seemed to zone out for a second."

"Yeah," West said, putting a grin back on her face reassuringly. "I'm fine. Just thinking about something."

Satisfied, Jersey turned back towards where Colorado was just walking out into the room below.

"F.I.L.S.S., set up paint-round practice session," Florida said into a microphone. A chirpy female voice spoke in response from the speakers.

"Yes, Agent Florida. Preparing Training Room for paint-round practice session."

"You're gonna be in for a real treat," Florida said excitedly as he leaned against the wall. West's attention focused on the pair of Freelancers below as the countdown began.

"3." The old part of West's life seemed to fall away as she got ready for the next step of the war.

"2." North and Colorado chose their weapons and got ready to fire at each other, while West tensed at the knowledge that she was going to be a totally different person after this.

"1." Like North and Colorado starting towards each other, West started towards taking on this Project: Freelancer and coming out as one of the best.

"Round Begin."


	19. Chapter 18: Kicking Things Off

**(A/N) Hey guys, sorry that this is coming a day late. Basically, between work and studying for my upcoming exams, I have very little time on my hands at the moment, so expect a lot of delays in the upcoming weeks. I'm sorry about that, but it's an unfortunate fact, Real Life has to take precedence. But when my exams are over, by the 13****th**** of January, everything will get back on track! Another new character's POV for you now, débuting the incredible Colorado, written by Minaethiel, who some of you may recognise from Phase One: Genesis, and Grifball: Running Rampant! Again just reminding you that applications for this fic end on the 1****st**** of January, so get a move on if you're interested!**

**Enjoy!**

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**Chapter Eighteen – Kicking Things Off**

**Agent Colorado**

**Written by Minaethiel**

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"_I warn you all, hatred is finding fertile soil within me. And in your compassion, in your every good intention, you nurture it_." - Steven Erikson, _Memories of Ice_

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"Initiating lockdown paint scenario."

The voice of the ship's A.I., F.I.L.S.S., was clearly audible through my new helmet. So far I had been impressed by the facilities of Project Freelancer. Top of the line equipment, a CO who didn't seem afraid of getting things done that needed to be done, and supposedly highly trained agents. My new armour wasn't too shabby either; a cobalt blue with coral trim, all spread out over Hayabusa class armour and helmet, and Scout variant shoulders, according to the description provided on my data-pad. I was far more used to your UNSC standard marine gear, but I wouldn't be wearing that ever again. Comparing all of my new equipment to my old gear, however, made me feel like getting kicked out of the UNSC had been worth it. Not that I didn't miss my old squad a bit; they had almost been like family. The feeling really hadn't been mutual though, considering most of them had thought I was psychotic.

Smirking at the actions that had led to such an assessment, I glanced over the table of weapons in front of me. Every UNSC weapon I could think of had been made available to me. I had made it a point to become at least proficient with each weapon so I could be a more dynamic soldier, but my true weapon of choice was the SMG. Easy to carry, high rate of fire, decent clip size, and best of all, it was a close-quarters weapon, which was my preferred fighting style.

Magnetizing a DMR to my back as my secondary weapon, I grabbed two SMGs and slammed a clip of lockdown paint into each. I then turned my attention to the window of the training room viewing area. Behind it were the rest of the new agents, and Agent Florida. I had no intention of getting to know any of them, but I was dying to show off my capabilities.

My attention went to my opponent, Agent North Dakota, or North as he preferred to be called. Looking at his weapon choices, I couldn't help but chuckle to myself. A sniper rifle and a shotgun. The shotgun was a reasonable choice for the size of the room, but a fucking sniper rifle? He had to be joking.

"North, maybe I'm blind, but I don't see any grassy knolls around here," I said, motioning to the rifle slung on his back.

He chuckled a bit. "Trust me, I don't need one."

I shrugged and shook my head. It was his funeral if he wanted to use a long range weapon in CQC conditions. I had thought the room would just be wide open, but as F.I.L.S.S. began explaining the rules of the exercise, I realized just how wrong I was. Pillars began rising from the floor. Narrowing my eyes, I began formulating my strategy. It became a much more interesting process when pillars began to withdraw into the floor.

"Round starting in three... two... one... Begin!"

At F.I.L.S.S.' prompt, I shot off like a rocket towards the first pillar and pressed my back against it. Now it was time to see what Project Freelancer had in store for me. When Agent Alaska had stepped onto my Pelican and given me his pitch for the project, I had had high expectations. So far I was not disappointed; North was like a ghost. Wandering cautiously though the stone maze, I caught sight of North once, but quickly lost track of the purple and green soldier. A frustrated scowl crept across my face. What was taking so long? We had to be at least three minutes into this match and nothing had happened so far.

A moment later I regretted my statement as I heard the click of a shotgun next to me. Years of instinct had me dropping and rolling backwards as North charged around the corner, shotgun raised. _Son of a bitch!_ I thought as I scrambled backwards. Bringing up my SMGs, I let out a quick, precise burst where he was, but he dodged expertly behind cover as paint shells splattered the floor and pillar near him. Turning to find my own cover, I nearly yelped in surprise as a pillar started rising beneath me.

Looking up, I could see that the pillar North had ducked behind was lowering, and when it got halfway down, I found myself staring down the barrel of a sniper rifle. Alarmed now, I leapt to my right and rolled behind another pillar with my heart racing. I ejected my spent clips and slammed in two new ones for each weapon. Peeking around the left corner, I could see no sign of North. My relief quickly turned to unease; he had again disappeared.

Cautiously, I stepped around the pillar, and almost immediately felt my leg cement to the block as the crack of a rifle went off. Turning towards the line of origin, I saw North lying prone down the pillar alley. Before I could raise my own weapons and retaliate, I felt another paint bullet impact my vest, and no matter how much force I put into my movements, my armour wouldn't budge.

"Round One, complete. Point goes to Agent North Dakota."

Fuming with embarrassment, I waited as the paint fell away. I could see North offering me his hand, and I hesitated before taking it and allowing him to help me up. Before he could say a word, I hurried off to refill my ammo. I didn't want to hear any gloating over his sniper 'kill.' What a way to show off how I had gotten picked up for the project. The first round and I get flattened by a fucking sniper rifle, and in close quarters conditions!

Slinging the unused DMR off of my back, I replaced it back on the table and turned a sharp eye on the other weapons. Eventually I turned away from my many options and grabbed more spare clips for my SMGs. Walking away from the table, I tried to think of a different strategy. Caution obviously wasn't going to work, and I had never been one for patient strategies anyway. This time I'd flat out rush his position. If I made enough noise on my approach, it could even potentially confuse him. Nodding to myself, I readied my SMGs as F.I.L.S.S. again began to speak.

"Round Two beginning in three... two... one... Begin!"

Before her voice had stopped echoing, I was off and weaving my way through the pillars, my SMGs prepped for firing. My boots pounding on the floor was the only sound I could hear, until the blast of a shotgun went off next to me. Leaping forward, I whipped around and saw first the paint splatter on the ground, followed by a flash of purple. Aiming quickly, I let out a rapid, but controlled, burst that splattered nothing but another pillar. Hissing to myself in frustration, I leapt onto the pillar North had dodged behind and looked down.

North hadn't heard me pull myself up, and was looking around a corner. However, as I brought my SMG up to fire, he looked up and dodged to the left. With my clip spent, and no time to reload, I leapt off and tackled him to the ground as he was bringing his shotgun up to fire. Both of us sprawled on the ground now, I grabbed his arms and attempted to wrench the shotgun out of his grasp, dropping my SMGs in the process.

Out of instinct, I felt my hand go for my now absent combat knife, and almost lost my grip on the senior Freelancer below me. I suppose it didn't matter much anyway, because I found myself being thrown off. Rolling with the impact, I snatched up one of my SMGs and slid behind cover as sticky pink paint splattered my previous location. I hastily inserted a new clip into my weapon and felt my irritation swell. There was no way I'd be having such trouble in a close quarters fight normally. My old squad could barely keep up when we had trained together. Now here I was being beat up like an amateur. Clenching my free fist and narrowing my eyes, I heard a step on the other side of my pillar.

_Ok, time to see what this suit could do._

Drawing my fist back, I held my breath for an eternity, waiting for North to round the corner. The tip of his sniper rifle preceded him, appearing in the corner of my vision, and I leapt out, throwing a punch into North's sternum, winding his, and following up with a quick right hook before knocking him onto his back with an uppercut, and my laughter bubbled up as the Freelancer smashed into the ground, not having given him a chance to react. With a self-satisfied grin, I raised my SMG and plastered the stunned Freelancer with a clip of lockdown paint. Smirking, I turned away as the paint began to run off of his armour.

"Round Two, complete. Point goes to Agent Colorado."

I could almost imagine the impressed murmurs and interested gazes of my fellow rookies. If any of us were going to stand out, it was going to be me; I'd make sure of it. Picking up my other SMG off of the floor, I jogged over to the table and reloaded on ammo for what I hoped was the final time. Remembering my knife predicament, I also picked up a pistol as a sidearm in case I needed it. Cracking my neck, I turned to see that North had kept to his same arsenal.

Since my plan had worked so well last time, I decided to keep to my same strategy for this next round. Looking over my weapons, I felt my mind drifting over training sessions in the past. I hadn't always been gung-ho for a pistol as a sidearm, but Aaron had changed my mind quickly enough. Long hours at the shooting range had paid off big time. A scowl ripped away my previous satisfaction. That time was long ago; now I had to focus on the task at hand.

Walking confidently towards the starting point, I waited for the start signal.

"The final round is about to begin!"

So this was my last chance to beat the senior agent down. I felt my hands take a firmer, more tense grip on my SMGs.

"Round Three begin in three... two... one... Begin!"

Exploding forward, I somersaulted behind a pillar and looked around the right corner. The lane was clear, and the only sound I could hear was the grinding of pillars rising and falling. My heart was pounding furiously against my chest as adrenalin surged through me. Taking a deep breath, I raised my weapons and spun around the corner before taking off loudly down the lane. The crack of a rifle went off, and I realized that North had finished with his stint of close quarters combat.

Hissing to myself in frustration, I took cover behind another pillar just as another shot went off and paint splattered next to my right leg. A few flecks plastered themselves to my armour, but not enough to impede my movement. Breathing a silent, thankful phrase, I tried to think of what I would do next. However my musings were interrupted as the barrel of a sniper stuck out beside me. Without thinking, I grabbed it and yanked as hard as I could. North came swinging around the corner and slammed a fist into my face. Releasing the rifle, I stumbled back and raised my guns in an unregulated stream of fire. North expertly ducked behind a pillar, and as I reloaded, he came around the corner with his shotgun raised.

"Shit!"

On a whim, I threw myself around the nearest pillar, only to find that it was lowering into the ground. Bunching my muscles, I leapt across to the next pillar...

...And right into North.

Immediately he brought his shotgun around, and in a stroke of pure luck, I brought my pistol up and fired at the barrel of his shotgun. Paint erupted into the chambers, and he tossed the now-useless weapon away. Before I could get off a shot at him, he tackled me to the ground, and the battle became a show of physical might. In our struggle I lost my pistol, and I couldn't reach my holstered SMGs.

At one point I managed to throw North off and grab an SMG, but as I began to shoot, he fired a shot from his sniper and encased my left hand in paint. My eyes flickered to my useless hand, and that was the only invitation North needed. Immediately my vision went black and my armour locked up as I felt the paint bullet impact my head.

"Round Three, complete. The winner is Agent North Dakota."

I felt anger and embarrassment well up inside of me again as I waited for the paint to fall away. North was again there offering his hand, and I took it before pulling myself up.

"You had some good moves back there, Colorado. Blocking my shotgun barrel was a nice touch."

I still wasn't used to my new name. It felt weird to be called "Colorado" instead of my actual name. At the same time it felt refreshing that no one knew who I was. None of them knew about my past actions or missions. To them, I was brown-haired and green-eyed Agent Colorado. The only people who knew me were the heads of the project, and Agent Alaska. I didn't feel comfortable with another agent knowing everything about me, but I suppose it couldn't be helped.

I gave a small nod at North's comment, not trusting my voice to keep a civil tone. Together, we began walking out of the training room to re-join our ragtag group in the viewing room. On the way there, I found myself recounting my first actual experience with a member of Freelancer. Florida and North had been welcoming, and just a tad annoying with their cheeriness, but Alaska had been a far cry different. Cordial, but confident that he could snap me like a twig. Whether that was mentally or physically, I was still deciding.

* * *

_When Alaska had shown up, I was on the first Pelican off of Seras Prime, which was really just one big plains world with a forest here and there. When I first saw him, I was wondering why an ODST was talking to my captain. I had gotten suspicious when both of them had started looking in my direction. Hadn't I already been in enough trouble to span three military enlistments? Nevertheless, both of them had walked to my Pelican, but only Alaska had stayed. For a second he didn't say anything; just seemed to be sizing me up. However when he did finally speak, I hadn't remembered being caught so off guard before._

_"So, how's Aaron been?"_

_I think my eyes had nearly popped out of my head when he asked that. After the initial shock, I began feeling the familiar pangs of hurt, as well as the slight stirrings of anger._

_"Excuse me?"_

_"You heard me. How has Corporal Aaron Gunny been?"_

_I remember looking him straight in the visor, my mouth in a hard line, my eyes holding a warning to fuck off._

_"Dead. Has been for one week, three days, eighteen hours, and thirty-three minutes. Wait, make that thirty-four minutes. Do you want the seconds too, jackass?"_

_Since I was technically no longer a UNSC servicewoman, it would have been a sign of respect to address him as 'Sir,' but he was getting dangerously close to just outright pissing me off._

_"No, that won't be necessary, Corporal. Oh sorry, Serena I mean. You don't get a marine rank if you're not a marine."_

_A sneer began forming on my lips._

_"So are you part of a Helljumper unit designed specifically to piss people off? Well congratulations, you're doing a fantastic job. If you plan on living past retirement, I'd recommend you get the hell off of my bird."_

_Alaska had tilted his head, and I still didn't know if he had been giving me a confused look, or a sardonic smirk._

_"And here I thought we were becoming friends. I was just about to ask you how your brother was."_

_That... that right there had been the last straw. Immediately I had shot out of my seat, heedless of the other UNSC military personnel outside, and lunged for him, intending to slam his head against the wall, choke him, anything to get him to shut the fuck up. However, none of that had happened. With a speed I didn't think even an ODST had possessed, he neatly dropped the file he was holding on a seat, and grabbed my arm before pinning it behind my back. Standing rather nonchalantly, he tsked for a moment._

_"Sloppy. Very sloppy. Your twitching muscles gave away your movements, and you allowed your temper to give away your intentions. In addition you had no further plan besides just trying to beat me into a pulp. Did you even consider the other soldiers outside? How disappointing."_

_I didn't say anything, instead using my free arm to elbow him in the visor. However he quickly caught that as well and bent it painfully._

_"Listen up, Miss Alexander. Your file is a fascinating read; it really is. You have skills that have somehow caught the eye of my superiors. However you lack control. Every decision you make is an emotional process. If you are willing to be civil, to get your rage under control, I'll release you and give you the information I was sent to give you."_

_I had narrowed my eyes, but stopped trying to escape his iron grasp._

_"Fine. Do I least get your name?"_

_He had dropped his grip so I could return to my seat, and he grabbed the file before responding._

_"My name is Agent Alaska. I'm here to give you the chance to join Project Freelancer."_

* * *

Stopping outside of the viewing room, I shook away the meeting. That had been what? Two weeks ago? A week? It didn't matter. What mattered was what I did now that I was here. As the door slid open I looked over my fellow rookies and crossed my arms, raising my head defiantly. Any bullshit about how I'd get him next time, and I'd drag the offender down to the training room and use them as target practice. Unsurprisingly, Florida was the first to speak up.

"Way to go, 'Rado; you sure showed North here a new trick or two."

'Rado, huh? Interesting nickname. Florida's remark seemed to stir the rest of the group. A couple of them gave congratulatory murmurs that I couldn't hear, and I dismissed them almost immediately. Being quiet wasn't a crime if the meaning was clear. One of them, I think his code-name was Nebraska, flashed me a thumbs up.

"Way to make us rookies look good, 'Rado."

The others seemed to agree, even if they didn't make it obvious. Nevada was clapping in that excited and hyper way that was sure to become even more annoying over time, and I didn't envy Connecticut for having to room up with her. Jersey, my roommate, gave me a nod, while Kentucky tilted his head slightly.

"Well, it was ok, but could have used more boomers."

I nodded to all of them and looked between North and Florida, waiting for instructions. However, I let a stealthy smirk creep across my face. My first day in Freelancer and I had already proved my prowess in combat.

I had full confidence that I would take this project by storm.


	20. Chapter 19: Any Questions?

**(A/N) Hey guys, NicKenny here coming to you with an early Christmas present for you all! Here is our latest chapter for Phase Two: Betrayal, brought to you by Jerem6401, when Penn finally learns to embrace the Christmas spirit and give up his old, sociopathic ways.**

**Only not really.**

**Also, just a reminder that anyone who intends on applying for a character in this fic has just over a week to do so, so it's really time to get your asses in gear, y'all. Again, apps close on January 1****st****. So seriously, if you're interested, get a move on! With that, I'm going to wish you all a very Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen – Any Questions?**

**Pennsylvania**

**Written by Jerem6401**

* * *

"_Leadership is the art of getting someone else to do something you want done because he wants to do it."_ – Dwight D. Eisenhower

* * *

It's amazing, sometimes, how you can be somewhere so different, and feel like nothing has changed.

At least that's how it felt sitting on that bench, anticipated the start of my training session. It may have been my first mission alongside the Crimson Sun, but my nerves were already deadened by my experience in Project Freelancer. There was no anxiety, no fear… and at this point, I didn't even bother coming up with a strategy. But there was something I was feeling. Something I didn't expect. There was an emptiness, that feeling that overcomes someone when they achieve their life goal. The knowledge that something that once consumed your mind is now something that never has to snake its way into your consciousness again. This training session was supposed to prove to our unit that I was more than capable of leading them, but to me… it felt like it had no purpose.

Without my name glowing in bright blue letters above everyone's head, it felt like I was no one.

**"Pennsylvania,"** the computer spoke out, **"report to the training floor immediately."** Funny how I was still called 'Pennsylvania'. I had the option to go back. Back to my real name. As far as I'm concerned, there's only two times in my life I want to be known by that name. One had already passed. A time before the war. The next… would only be when my eyes had shut for good. I pushed myself to my feet and made my way towards the training floor entrance. This was fixing to be an interesting fight.

My armour wasn't the same as it used to be. It was heavier now, bolstered with the same metal alloy that made up the Insurrection's prototype armour we set out to destroy. I had also taken several steps of my own to make my armour fit my needs. I used the nearly unbreakable alloy to construct some piercing spikes that attached to both my gloves and gauntlets. If I hit something with a punch or a forearm… they were staying down this time around. I had been specifically instructed to remove them for this session. The other alterations to my suit, more aesthetic than anything else, weren't worth noting, other than the fact that we had been forced to re-route my oxygen system, and as a result reinforced tubing connected my torso to the base of my spine, where my oxygen reserve lay. Technically, this might have been a weak point, but what did I care? Death didn't scare me anymore. After my suit was outfitted with its teleportation enhancement, I had already experienced death almost a hundred times.

The door in front of me finally started to open. The training floor was very similar to the one at Project Freelancer. A giant empty room with metal pillars spread across the floor. Before me I saw about six Insurrectionist soldiers. All of them had their hands up, on guard, ready to fight. They must have known what was coming.

As I stepped onto the floor, the sensors in my helmet started to flash. I turned and looked up to see another soldier standing over the doorway. He jumped down, planning to catch me off guard. In a second, my hand was up and I had a firm grip on his shin. I ripped him inwards and smashed my fist into his helmet, shattering my first visor of the day and knocking his body into the wall.

I turned back around to see the other soldiers second-guessing their roles, but now that I had that small taste of violence… I wanted a full meal. I started to slowly walk towards the group as one of the soldiers charged in. Once he reached me I hiked my boot into the air and slammed it into his chin, clotheslining him, before ramming my boot back down and pinning his helmet to the floor. I continued walking forward. Two more soldiers came running. I ducked under one punch and rammed my fist into his stomach, lifting him off the ground. The second soldier went for a kick, which I swiftly blocked with my forearm. I wheeled myself around throwing my back leg into the air. My heel cut in a circle around me, nailing both soldiers in their heads and knocking them to the ground.

As I came to a stop another soldier was already throwing a punch at me. I reached up a snatched his fist out of the air, before crushing his hand like an orange. Juice and all. The final soldier came up quickly behind the last. He used all his might to throw his fist at me. His punch cracked against my helmet. My head turned slightly, but the rest of the my body was rock solid in its place. I turned my head to look at him as he pulled his hand back. He stepped away, but before he got too far, I grabbed his shoulder and ripped his body into the air. With a wind-up, I rocketed his body into the wall, and he slammed off the metal surface with a groan.

With that, the training session came to an end.

"What a show!" a voice yelled. I turned to see Ark standing on the floor with me, clapping his hands sarcastically. "Haven't lost your touch, I see. Could have gone a little easier on them, though."

"All you said was I couldn't kill them," I replied. "You're lucky I gave you that much."

"Beggers can't be choosers," he agreed, smirking, watching as a pair of medics attended to the last man, lifting onto a stretcher. "Anyway, I'm here to introduce you to your new squad."

"Squad?"

"Yes, Penn. You're not running future missions by yourself. The stakes are too high with the UNSC and Project Freelancer on our asses." Ark motioned behind him as five soldiers stepped onto the floor. "Get to know them, Penn. You're the field commander for the Crimson Sun. When we're on the ground, every movement and action is going to be guided by you. Teach them a thing or two." Ark turned and walked away as the soldiers approached me. I looked at them and folded my arms.

"Name. Combat specialty. Now!" They looked at one another before someone finally chimed in.

"Daria," the first reported. She was about 5'8", fairly skinny, with jet black recon armour and only a few spots of red importing any sense of individuality. A pair of goggles sat just above her visor, ready to be equipped at any moment. "I'm the squad's sniper. I provide overwatch and update enemy locations and weaponry to the squad's HUD. I also specially designed these goggles myself. They can calculate the trajectory of a sniper round and give me the perfect shot every time. Wind resistance, distance, even banking off objects, not an issue at all. My codename… Scope."

I nodded and looked to the next soldier. He was smaller than she was. Extremely frail looking. He was wearing ODST style armour, that didn't cover his arms or neck, which seemed to be horribly scarred. Attached to his gauntlets were two flamethrowers, which were being fuelled by a large tank on his back.

"Sid!" he yelled in a squeaky voice. "I like fire! Send me in first, and I'll take out a good number of them. You ever see what happens to team morale after the enemy witnesses ten of their friends sizzling on the floor like bacon? It's beautiful. Codename: Inferno!"

The next in line was a massive individual. I only came up to his chest. He was easily over seven feet tall and very thick in stature. His armour was covering every inch of his body and looked like it weighed tons. He had a massive mini-gun that he held with one hand, being supplied with ammo from the pack attached to the back of his armour.

"They call me Grendel," he said in an extremely low voice. "I lay down support fire." There was a silence. I looked at the others and then tilted my head.

"Codename?" I asked. He stared at me, before rolling out his shoulders.

"Grendal." I shrugged and then nodded.

The next soldier was about six feet tall and well built. He had jet black armour and a standard ODST helmet with a red skull painted on the front. He had the handle of a weapon sticking out of a holster at his side. I recognized him, as impossible as I knew it to be.

"Silhouette," he said quietly. I raised an eyebrow.

"No you're not," I replied. He titled his head. "Silhouette was a soldier when I was still a kid. Greatest stealth trooper of all time. He'd be well into his sixties by now. So unless you're much older than you seem, which is unlikely, you aren't Silhouette."

"Have you seen his face?" he asked. I stopped. That's what Silhouette was famous for. No one knew his real name, or what he looked like. "There was never one Silhouette. I'm one of a line of soldiers to wear this mask."

"So are you just as good as the others? And what about his equipment?"

"I have all the perks that come with this uniform. His camo cloak, durasteel katana, increased radar detection… you name it."

"Good." I looked down to the next soldier, when he suddenly stepped forward and pointed a finger at me.

"You think you can just walk in here and take the place of our field sergeant?!" he cried out.

"Excuse me?" I asked, already getting angry, not used to anyone .

"We had a man in charge of our squad, and thanks to you freelancers, he's gone! You'll never be what he was!" I smirked under my helmet and slowly shook my head.

"Name, soldier?"

"Craig. Codename…" Before he could finish, my fist was buried in the front of his helmet. He launched backwards and slammed into the floor, out cold.

"First thing we're going to cover," I spoke loud and clear to my new troops.

"Is it respect?" Inferno commented, in a snarky tone. I stepped closer to him, seeing him tense up as I did.

"No. It's your gear. The technology installed in your armour is specific to the Insurrection. If any of our designs make it to the enemy, we're in deep trouble. So, outside of this facility, if your vitals stop, your suit with self-destruct to preserve the safety of our technology." The crew nodded, also dropping a little sweat at the thought that they were wearing a bomb. "Naturally, though, the most important information is stored within your helmets. Therefore, until clearance is given, your helmet seals underneath your chin when being worn. It cannot come off until I give the thumbs up. Watch."

I pressed a button on my gauntlet and watched the crew jump as two metal pieces extended under their chins, locking the helmets onto their heads. I approached Craig as he started to regain consciousness. "These helmets are now impossible to remove." I grabbed Craig's shoulder and lifted him to his knees. I put one hand on the bottom of his helmet and pressed my other hand against his shoulder. "Well nearly impossible…"

"What?" Craig asked, regaining his senses. "What's going… wait… what are you…!? WAIT, NO!" I pulled my arm back, ripping his helmet off. His suit started beeping, but failed to self-destruct, as we were inside the facility. His body fell to the floor as blood started to pool around it. I looked into the visor of the helmet in my hand, still heavy with contents. I snickered a little and turned to the rest of my squad. None of them daring to look me in the eye… the way it should be. I dropped the helmet to the floor and folded my arms again.

"So… any questions?"


	21. Chapter 20: New Faces

**(A/N) Hey guys, NicKenny here, bringing you all the latest installment of Phase Two: Betrayal, written by the always-epic StormBlue, from North Dakota's perspective. Hope everyone reading has had a great Christmas, and hell, even those not reading. I'm feeling charitable. Just a quick reminder, also, that we're looking for more writers for the second half of this fic, but that applications will be closing on the 1****st**** of January, so if there are people interested, I urge them to apply immediately!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty – New Faces**

**Agent North Dakota**

**Written by StormBlue**

* * *

"_And once the storm is over, you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won't even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won't be the same person who walked in. That's what this storm's all about._" – Haruki Murakami

* * *

The atmosphere around North's table in the mess hall was mixed, and difficult to define. There were curious glances to the rookies' table and a few awkward attempts at conversation, but the table was mostly immersed in silence as each person picked at their food, focusing on their own thoughts. It was noticeable that not everyone was in the group, with a few of them already having eaten and were off doing their own thing or settling back into the MoI_._ But it was the absence of others that was more noticeable.

It was kind of refreshing to be back with Project Freelancer, with the team assembled again. It was good to have another chance to get back at the Insurrectionists and finally end the war between the UNSC and the Unified Revolutionary Front. North could only hope that his teammates felt the same way that those who had been struggling the past few weeks would have been able to find their sense of direction and purpose again. He had worried about them; not only Georgia and Cal, but everyone else as well. South, at least, was eager to get back into the action.

But then again… being here again would only bring back memories for those affected most by the loss of their teammates, dead and otherwise. Even with the Freelancers together again and the new recruits around, the team had been broken. The wounds were still fresh, he knew, and it would take time to heal. Even now, Georgia didn't hang around as much as he used to and Cal was silently brooding, picking at his own food to the side. One time North had heard him muttering to himself but was unable to make out the words, and when he asked about it, Cal simply denied having said anything.

Still, North tried to be positive and look out for his friends as best he could. After all, he could only do what he knew how to do, and that was offer comfort to those who would accept it. Memories of the many times he had comforted and held his twin as a child despite his own pain flashed through his mind, the kind words he would whisper to her and the bedtime stories he would come up with to cheer her up. This wasn't a lot different from that, except that none of them were kids and it didn't really work like that anymore.

Where he couldn't help his old teammates, he could focus more on the new ones. They hadn't been there when the project had been disbanded and would likely stumble upon sensitive subjects and get confused as to the reactions of the first and second wavers, as he doubted many of the agents to be open to conversation about that.

Taking a bite of his potatoes, North looked over to the other table again. The rookies, in their assorted armour colours, were all eating and talking - or arguing - amongst themselves, reminding North of his own first day at Freelancer. With the new people and their skillsets added to the team, they would have a better chance against the Crimson Sun.

_Hopefully._

Wyoming broke the silence, following North's gaze and watching the recruits with an amused expression. "They look like a jolly group of misfits, same as the last group that walked in."

"And the one before that," York added with a grin.

"Look at them," came Cal's voice from the end of the table. "They have no idea what they're doing here," he said, not in a friendly tone.

Sota had a scowl on his face. "They probably won't last very long," he muttered, agreeing with his roommate.

Florida sent a worried glance over in their direction. "Now it doesn't seem right to go about judging them now," he said. "Most of them haven't even been able to show what they're capable of yet."

"They will," Carolina said from where she was seated next to York.

Now that they had conversation going, York wasn't about to let it stop. "So this looks familiar," he noted.

"What does?" South asked, pushing her tray away as she had already cleaned it off.

York gestured. "Well if you look over here at this table, with us… then over there at all the rookies," he shrugged, leaving his sentence unfinished.

North smiled, understanding where he was going. "It reminds you of when you guys were the senior agents and we were the rookies."

Wyoming chuckled. "Yes, I remember sitting here while the lot of you looked around like baby birds waiting to be fed."

South glared at him for his comment. "I seem to remember you all staring at us like you had nothing better to do," she retorted.

North glanced at her, smiling slightly. "It is a little different being over here for a change."

York suddenly smiled, as if he remembered something. "So what about that one-on-one with Colorado? She almost had you there North," he teased.

North leaned back. That had been an interesting match. Colorado certainly had given him a challenge. "You saw that?"

Wyoming nodded. "We saw the whole thing, mate. Watched it from one of the viewing screens."

Carolina thought back to the match and 'Rado's strategies. "Colorado's technique could use some improvement, but she has potential."

"Clogging your shotgun was a good move," Sota admitted.

South scoffed. "But she still lost," she said.

Cal grunted in agreement. "A simple shot to the head would have been more effective. You've still got the person to deal with even if you've take out their gun."

North glanced over at Cal. He missed the more light-hearted person he used to be. Turning back to the subject, he had to agree with York. "She was smart enough to change her strategy. During that last round she almost did get me." He rolled his shoulders. "I'm still sore from the second round," he added.

York chuckled. "Yeah, you'd think they'd come up with something a little less painful than that lockdown paint."

Carolina shook her head. "The training battles are designed to be as close to the real thing as they can get, including the added effect of pain," she explained. "It's to teach you to not get hit in the first place."

South snorted. "Yeah, it still sucks though."

Wyoming looked over at the recruits again, his gaze focusing on the white one. "So who's the big fellow? Not another anger-fuelled brute, I hope?" His gaze darkened as he undoubtedly thought of the traitor, Penn.

"Who, Utah?" Florida asked, shocked. "He might be big, but I don't think he's nothing like that. He seemed more gentle than anything else."

North nodded. "I wouldn't-" he was cut off by the raised voice of one of the rookies.

"We'll break his legs!" exclaimed the green and blue agent excitedly. "With EXPLOSIONS!"

This had shocked all the seasoned agents as well as the rookies. Carolina looked disapproving, Wyoming amused, Sota had an eyebrow raised and Cal's expression was unreadable. Florida muttered about how that wasn't the nicest thing to say even if he was talking about someone who wasn't the nicest person. South looked over, annoyed.

"Who is that?"

"Kentucky," Florida replied. "He's a little more… easily excitable."

York looked like he didn't know whether to start laughing or running. "Should I be worried?" he asked North.

North was a little taken aback by that, but didn't think Kent would actually do extreme. Probably. "It's like when you get Georgia around any heavy machinery," he guessed. "Hey, maybe they'll even get along. Kent might be able to distract him from...other things."

"Who do you think they're even talking about?" Carolina was puzzled.

Wyoming chuckled. "If it's any of those blasted Insurrectionists, I'll get behind that," he said.

"I think all of us would. Especially from the Crimson Sun," Sota added with a dark expression.

At that mention, the joking mood turned sour and the smiles vanished.

York sighed. "We've got a tough fight ahead of us. Penn was pretty much unbeatable, and when Ark disabled F.I.L.S.S., there was nothing we could do to stop him."

South frowned. "He caught us off-guard then. This time we'll be ready for him," she said.

North looked back to the rookies again. "The Director recruited a couple more hackers. I'm sure they'll be able to make sure he won't be able to do anything like that again."

"Not to mention we've also got Harper to deal with again," Sota pointed out.

Florida nodded. "He was hard enough to catch the first time."

Cal curled his fingers into a fist. "We won't be aiming to capture him," he growled.

Carolina fixed him with a glare. "We will follow our orders to the letter. If they're wanted alive, we will bring them in. _Alive,_" she said with finality before standing up and taking her empty tray away.

Wyoming watched her go. "Let's hope the Director doesn't care about bringing them back alive then," he said darkly.

Silence fell, and Florida looked around, a little uncomfortable. He stood and stretched. "I guess I'll go and see what Al is doing," he said, and sent another troubled glance at them before walking away.

North stared at the table, immersed in his own thoughts. The betrayal still stung him despite all the time that had passed, but he didn't outwardly show it because he still felt like he needed to be there for anyone who would let him. But Penn and Ark had chosen their side, and now Project Freelancer was back and had targeted them.

"Even if the new recruits aren't seasoned agents yet, they give us an advantage because Ark and Penn don't know what they're capable of. They know what to expect from the rest of us," North pointed out. Likely, they would need every advantage they could get.

South grimaced. "But will they compare? Can any of them replace the agents we lost?"

As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized what she had said. She glanced over at Cal.

Cal didn't even look at her. "No one would be able to replace Mich," he said, so quietly they almost couldn't hear him. "Or Massa."

"It shouldn't be hard to replace Penn and Ark," Sota had his fists clenched, fury in his eyes.

York shook his head. "Shouldn't be hard at all," he noted sourly.

Each of the first and second-wave Freelancers had a personal score to settle with the newest organization of Insurrectionists. And it was all in the memory of two agents. They'd better start watching their backs a little more closely. They would never allow themselves to make the same mistakes again.


	22. Chapter 21: Nerd Herd

**(A/N) Hey guys, NicKenny here, sorry about the low quantity of updates lately, but unfortunately normal schedule won't resume for another week, until I finish my exams. However, once I'm done we'll be posting more than ever, and with hopefully less delays! Hope you all had a very happy Christmas, and a great New Years! This chapter features another of our new Freelancers, but from a writer who you'll all be familiar with: TunelessLyric, the writer of the former Agent Michigan! We've selected our writers for the second-half of this fic, but we will, in a month or two, be searching for writers for Agent Texas, so keep an eye out for that!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-One – Nerd Herd**

**Agent Nevada**

**Written by TunelessLyric**

* * *

_"It's hard to beat a person who never gives up." -_ Babe Ruth

* * *

When she walked in, Nevada was taken by the sheer number of computers and miscellaneous electronic equipment. The air seemed to shimmer with the low hum of the consoles ranged in a loose circle around her. "Whoa."

"Agents, thank you for coming," the Director said from Nev's left, his face serious, and she was already beginning to wonder if he had any other kind. "I have had this room added to the _Invention_ solely for your use."

She started, turning to him sheepishly. Next to her Connecticut and Georgia did more of the same. Around the room a few technicians gaped.

"I have a very important mission for you three," he went on. "As you can see, your talents with hacking, and all things electronic, will be put to use today."

"Sir, with respect, I don't know what it is you want me to do," Georgia spoke up, glancing pointedly at Nevada. "Unless you want me to tear all these consoles apart, clean them and turn them into a solar-powered flare gun," he added hopefully.

The Director leaned over to the Freelancer in green and pink. "Your genius-level IQ will be sufficient, and knew Arkansas best while he was with the Project. Agents Nevada and Connecticut will be able to find some use for you, I have no doubt."

Nev swelled with pride at his words. Maybe hacking wasn't Georgia's strong suit, but he couldn't ask for better teachers. She would see if she could give him a leg up on the business. She glanced to the side at the engineer curiously.

He seemed to have deflated somewhat at the mention of his former roommate and good friend.

On Nev's other side, Connecticut snorted, which she hastily covered up as a sneeze, her long hair falling across her face with her helmet in her hands. The Director gave her a hard glare before sweeping on. "You will be working on what former Agent Arkansas dubbed the 'Mastery Cube'." He pulled a black box which glowed green internally from the counter next to him. "The Project's top scientists have told me that… well, maybe you'll be able to tell me why this task falls to you. The Crimson Sun must be found. I need to know their troop numbers, movements and if you have what it takes to combat Ark's hacking abilities. I have been told to have confidence you three will be able to track them using Arkansas' Cube. Get to work."

Nev snapped to a quick salute, mirrored by Connecticut and Georgia. She hurried to the main console. "Pinky, you're with me. Connie, you start setting firewalls and try a routine –"

"What makes you think I'm going to follow your orders?" the other woman flashed back.

"If it's all the same, I'd rather work alone," Georgia objected. He seemed to reconsider after a venomous glare from Connie.

Nev bit the inside of her cheek to stop the sharp retort already lined up. The Director's lips pinched and he released a slow breath.

"Good luck, agents." With that, he quit the room, setting the Mastery Cube down as he did so.

Nev rounded on Georgia. "I don't know what it is I've done, but I want to help find Ark. Can we start over?"

He nodded, somewhat sheepishly.

"Good." She sat at the nearest terminal and tugged her helmet off.

With the Director gone, techies swamped Nevada and her companions. Georgia had to knock one aside just to sit next to the woman in green and black. Connecticut sat at a far monitor, fingers flying over the keyboard on the desk.

Nev tapped the screen twice to activate it. She waved Georgia closer, explaining as she went.

"Okay, so first things first. We have to make a safe bubble to work from. No good if we alert Ark and the Sun to what we're up to. If they know we're after them, he'll up security measures and make it impossible to crack them."

Firewalls in place and alarms set, Nev leaned back, trying to decide what method to start with. Connie worked fast, which was a nice step up from being alone. She opened up a window on her spare monitor to chat with her teammate quickly.

"What do you need me to do?" Georgia asked.

Nev glanced at him. "Right now, I need you to watch. Once I get you on the basic page, I'll turn you loose… with some supervision, of course. See what I'm doing?"

He pushed a techie out of the way and peered over at her screen. "What _are_ you doing?"

She suppressed a sigh. "I'm writing a program to feint at Ark's Cube's defenses. It may not be a complete machine, but that thing is quick on the draw. It must have taken him years to get it this far," she muttered in admiration.

_Oh, god. Don't tell me you're actually in _love_ with the damn thing,_ Connie messaged her.

"It's a beautiful piece of equipment," protested Nev. "I _wish_ I'd designed something so awesome. Ark must be a genius!"

"Oh, he is," put in Georgia. He paled a little once he realized what he said.

Nev felt sorry for the man. Nothing like having your best friend turn around, kill a fellow agent and become your sworn enemy.

_Don't bother with the usual Trojans,_ warned the other member of their team, seemingly over Nevada fawning over their shared project.

_Please, I got off the playground years ago, get with it_, she sent back, hurt the other Freelancer would even have to say that. _That thing is way too advanced to be pestered by the average virus._

"I should probably tell you –"

Nev waved the technician away. "Can you get me something to drink? It's a little stuffy in here."

His mouth dropped for a moment, apparently indignant at being sent on "coffee duty", but he let out an annoyed sigh and nodded, but had one last question for her.

"So what are you going to try next?"

She grinned at her partner. "_We_ are going to test out one of my Spybots. Turn that console on before you leave, will you?"

While Georgia set about following her instructions, Nevada got busy with finishing her bot. She had to admit, this time she had outdone herself. She had been working on this for several years, itching to test it out on something really big. She shot it off at the Cube and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

The techie came back with a pot of coffee. Nev grabbed a cup and continued to wait for any kind of response.

At length, she got it. The banner scrolled across the screen. She slumped in her chair. "Well, fuckberries."

"What is it?" Georgia glanced over, wide-eyed, from where he was working on a tracer program.

Nev pushed her fingers through her short black hair and growled with annoyance. "It didn't work."

_Any more bright ideas?_

She could swear Connecticut was laughing at her from across the big room. For a moment she indulged herself in imagining her slamming the other woman's face into the countertop.

_You're up, champ_, she replied. She sat back and swore repeatedly. "I was so proud of that little bot."

Georgia opened his mouth, probably to sympathize, when her chat screen beeped again. Nev checked it and saw a long list of steps. She read through them quickly and considered the plan. It needed some cleaning up, but was similar to one she had used successfully before.

At once she sent back a few tweaks to a couple steps and got started. "Okay, here's what I need you to do, Pinky…"

Georgia nodded and complied with her orders. He bent over his screen and tapped away at commands.

On and on it went. Connie and Nev alternated coming up with the perfect plan to cripple Ark's defences. The Mastery Cube continued to shut down every attempt to crack it. Nev kept guzzling the coffee.

Eventually, a horrible idea floated to the forefront of her mind. Her hands stopped in the process of writing yet another software program, eyes glazed and face slackened. "Oh, come on!"

Georgia, six technicians and Connie turned to her. Nev continued to mutter, mostly insults aimed at Ark and his blasted box. Her love affair with the Mastery Cube had lasted until about the first time it foiled her carefully planned out attack.

_Get a grip on yourself! What's going on?_ Connie sent.

She snapped back to the tech room and shook herself. "You ever come across an Eternity Code?" she asked casually.

All conversations ground to an abrupt halt at her words. Nev's teammates gaped, Georgia in confusion and Connie in shock.

"Not possible," the other woman said dismissively.

"You explain it then," Nev shot back in frustration. "Give me a good reason for none of our best plans working. I hacked ONI's CHRYSTANTHEMUM files with one of these. You?"

That drained the words right out of the mouth of her most severe critic.

"Eternity Code?" Georgia squeaked.

Nev spun her chair to address him. "Based on a made-up language, the code could have _x_ amount of possible permutations. The kicker? Only Ark knows how the Mastery Cube's language corresponds to English. In short, he's the only one able to crack the Mastery Code."

The technician she had sent for coffee hours ago shuffled forward. "I _tried _to tell you that when you_ got_ here."

She waved him away. "Could have been an Eternity, could have been passworded with his grandmother's birthday. For all we know, it could be."

"So what do we do now?" Georgia asked, eyes wide.

Nev grinned. "Now we break it."

"And just how are you planning on breaking an _Eternity_ Code?" demanded Connecticut. "There's a reason why it isn't just called a May Take An Hour, Six Tops Code."

Nev's grin slipped a couple of notches down. She turned the matter over and over in her head. "I'm going to get back to you on that one, 'kay?"

Connie snorted and turned back to her work. She busily typed, face a mask of frustration, annoyance and hope. Georgia sat back thoughtfully, fiddling with the knobs to adjust the height of his desk chair. Nevada watched as he slowly sank toward the floor, stood and raised the chair's seat back to full height. Lather, rinse, repeat.

She found a small lightpen and began clicking it on and off. Her thoughts strayed to the time she hacked the Project Freelancer server a month ago. Had she thought she was clever! That was, until the Director caught her. And offered her a place. She had read the personnel files. She knew exactly the circumstances for Arkansas and Pennsylvania defecting. She knew why the rookies were here and why the Project went on a… sabbatical of sorts. To put it delicately.

_Stop doing that!_ her screen read.

She immediately threw the lightpen at a sour-faced Connie. "You can help come up with a plan, it's actually your turn!"

The other agent dodged the unlikely projectile, disappeared under her desk and returned with the pen. She beaned it back at her companion with a furious stare.

"Ladies, please," Georgia tried to calm them with a shaky laugh, after ducking as the lightpen went wide, "can we act our intelligence level?"

Nevada might as well have had a lit up light bulb appear cartoon-style over her head as she was suddenly struck by an idea. She pondered for a moment, glancing around the room. Her eyes fell on the green and pink agent by her shoulder and smiled wolfishly.

"What if we wrote our own Eternity Code?"

Silence, of the stunned senseless variety, percolated through the room.

"W-What? Are you joking? You've got to be kidding me," Connie finally spluttered.

Georgia gaped openly. "How?"

With an eye roll, Nevada gathered her scattered thoughts. "What's the last thing you would bargain for if you encoded a super computer with an unbreakable program? The same type of program to crack it!"

"That still never even touched the _how_, which I would very much like to know myself!" shouted Connie, exasperated and confused.

"Don't worry, I have a plan for that."

"Oh really?" she challenged. "Great. Okay, let's say we actually succeed with our own Code. How exactly does that help break the Motherfucking Cube?"

Even Nevada had to admit, that was a nice play on the hateful machine's name. "They have millions of mutations available to them, right? They can change and adapt with attacks. All we have to do is download ours to _his_ and let them go at it. Ark's Code is set to protect whatever's in the box, ours will be designed to _open_ the box. If it works, hey, we've written a successful Eternity Code of our very own. How does that sound?"

"And if it doesn't work?" Georgia asked quietly.

"If it doesn't work, I'll smash the thing open and rewire it myself," she promised darkly.

"Oh, no," objected Connie. "You'll have to get in line for that honour. I'm smashing it first."

"We'll see about who gets to kill it when." Nev turned and raised an eyebrow inquiringly at Georgia. "Time to put that brain of yours to work, Pinky."


	23. Chapter 22: Moving Mountains

**(A/N) Hey guys, coming at you with an update for Phase Two: Betrayal, even though I technically should be studying, and am violating my warning that there wouldn't be any more updates until my exams were over. Why? Well I'm glad you asked! Today, the 8****th**** of January, 2014, is The Freelancer Collaboration's first one-year anniversary, and we wanted to celebrate a little, even if it means distracting myself from my exams. So here you go, introducing another of our new Freelancers, but this one is, however, no OC, but Project Freelancer's very own Agent Utah! Written by the incredible Warg, here is a little something to thank you, the reader, for making our collaboration the success that it has been. This one is for you guys!**

**Also, to further celebrate our anniversary, I'm proud to announce that, with the help of the fantastic Bushtuckapenguin, we've set up our own website! It's still pretty rough, but everything you want to know about the collab and more can be found here, and, if not, then we have a thread in the forum looking for suggestions to improve the site, so feel free to post there - www,thefreelancercollaboration,weebly,com **

**(Just change the , to . )**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Two – Moving Mountains**

**Agent Utah**

**Written by WargishBoromirFan**

* * *

_"Gump! What is your sole purpose in this army?"_

_"To do whatever you tell me, drill sergeant."_

_"Goddamnit, Gump, you're a goddamn genius."_

- Forrest Gump

* * *

It was rather easy to forget how big Utah was. The white armour blended into the background, easily confused with Wyoming's or Cal's or Sota's from a distance. He was, if not the youngest Freelancer in the Project - the newly twenty-one-year-old hadn't asked the others' ages - at least one of younger members of the latest wave, soft-spoken when not prone to sudden outbursts of glee or frustration and awkward with a breathy accent that was slightly too high to be emerging from that massive a body with its gawky hands and coltish legs and broad shoulders that he seemed to carry like pauldrons three sizes too large for him.

Then he walked into the training room with Maine and didn't quite look him evenly in the eye. Not because he stood more than a few inches shorter than the senior agent, but because Utah had been taught not to hold a feral animal's stare.

Maine went immediately to a weight bench and started putting fifty pounders on either end, racking them up with a casual indifference that belied how the whole bench might threaten to tip over if he ended up with anything uneven.

"Need a spotter there, son?" Florida asked. Honestly, if it were anyone else, he'd probably need two. Florida didn't look built for the job, though at least he was wise enough to know it was needed.

"I can do it!" Utah volunteered. Maine ignored him and began silently counting reps.

"Maybe I'd better take the other end," North spoke up, eyeing Maine's tightened fingers apprehensively, as if he assumed he'd have more luck picking up the whole bench, Maine included, than prying the steel from his hands.

Well, lifting team members with their equipment could come in handy in the field someday. "Hey, North? How heavy are you in armour?" Utah decided to test his theory on the larger of the two Freelancers not currently moving solid steel through the air with furious intensity, bouncing the tall blond a few inches off the ground like he was testing a melon at the supermarket.

"Utah! Personal space! A little warning and personal space!" North's hands snapped to Utah's wrists, causing the dangled six-and-a-half foot solider to rock precariously out of balance. Utah gingerly angled back until North was once again more or less vertical, and then set him back down, removing his mitts from his waist.

"Oh, sorry. Just wanted to get a basic idea." North wasn't too bad, but dead lifting just one agent was something that just about anyone in the project could do.

North shakily ran a hand through his hair and circled uneasily about his centre of balance, waving off his sister when she threatened to stand and stomp over from her own training. "It's okay; just… warn me before you do something like that," he said, stepping out of arm's length.

"Well, if you wanted to pick someone up, why didn't you just say so?" West glommed onto Utah's back from a running start, and he hooked his elbows under her knees to keep her from dangling all her weight from the arms she'd wrapped around his neck.

"West! Down!" Virginia hissed. West peered over his shoulder, trying to meet his eye, and then shrugged as she loosened her playful chokehold.

"Do I have to?" she pouted, deploying full-blast puppy eyes.

It was Utah's turn to shrug, lifting her slightly higher as he did so. "I don't know how far I would have to carry somebody out in the field, so I guess I could use the practice now."

West Virginia brightened at this, hugging his neck once more. "Yay piggyback ride!"

"Looks like Utah managed to pick up a dumbbell in the weight room. Maybe he's not the stupidest newbie here," South muttered, earning herself a glare from Virginia and a muffled snort from Nevada.

"Come on, Virginia, she did kinda leap right into that one," the hacker said, though Nev was careful to remain facing the chest press as she did so.

Maine set down his bar and sat up, paying little attention to North and Florida as they tried to make sure the hefty weight didn't clatter right back out of its niches. "Too loud," he growled, stomping for the door.

"Where're you off to, Maine?" Florida asked.

"Motor pool. Lift some tanks for Georgia, where it's quiet." Only Florida could get a full soliloquy out of the bald giant.

"Just be careful, all right?" The eldest Freelancer received a grunt in acknowledgment, but Florida still looked after the broad retreating back with some serious tension in his posture.

"Sounds like fun. Maybe I'll go, too," Utah decided. West didn't really get a chance to decide whether or not she wanted to tag along, but she made no serious effort to untangle herself from his grip as the young man trotted after the virtual lava-flow of rage Maine left in his wake.

North and Florida followed a few circumspect feet behind them.

Maine was bench-pressing the front of a Warthog when Utah got there, a pair of green and a pair of gold boots also sticking out from beneath the vehicle. "I thought we were lifting tanks," Utah said, squatting to let West down to her feet. Someone dropped a wrench, Georgia swore, and Jarvis fussed at him to watch his language.

"There're times when it's the only appropriate thing to do," the pink and green armoured Freelancer muttered, and Maine made a grunt of agreement as the engineers slid out from under the Warthog.

"I can get started, then," Utah offered as the others greeted West Virginia with a little more composure now that they were out from under the vehicle and able to see who had arrived. Maine didn't look particularly glad to see either of them, or Florida and North when the two men just happened to pass by the motor pool just before Utah lifted the Scorpion.

It was only the front treads, and it was only a few inches, but he heard West dash off to get the others as North Dakota and Florida moved in to pull Utah away, obviously concerned that he would hurt himself. Maine set down the Warthog and walked over to the tank next to the one Utah was lifting. He yanked the front off the ground, pulling the treads higher than Utah had, and turned the orange dome of his helmet sardonically in the younger man's direction. Utah lifted his higher, grunting as he twitched North away.

With a kick to the undercarriage, Maine knocked the Scorpion higher and changed his grip to the treads, not quite setting the several-ton armoured vehicle on its end. Utah attempted to keep up, but managed to inflict more pain to his foot than vertical air to the tank.

This was going to take some serious focus. How had his drill sergeant put it again? He just had to remember who he was and what his goal was. If he didn't already have the means to accomplish his goal, the army would beat it into him. He'd come so far already, and they'd always said that he had plenty of raw power lurking in there; it was just a matter of bringing it to bear upon the task at hand. No better way to focus that than the good old fashioned war cry.

"My name is Freelancer Agent Utah and I. LIKE. TANKS!"

With that roar, he hitched the dropped Scorpion back up. It flew over Utah's head and hovered there for the long space between heartbeats. He positioned his hands to catch the axles as they came back down and braced for impact.

The Scorpion landed in his hands, and then drove them down. The tank was not hitting the level of acceleration that gravity would enforce were it unimpeded when the undercarriage cracked against his skull, but the next thing Utah remembered seeing was Sergeant Killian Jay, caustic medic ever on duty, reluctantly tugging off his white helmet and shining a penlight at his pupils. Surrounding the doctor, alongside the ghostly afterimages of the light, was a ring of Freelancers.

"Are you sure we ought to move him even this much? Head injuries can be deadly. He might look fine now and then go to sleep and just not wake up." West was here, returned from rounding up as many agents as she could on short notice, and sounded ruffled.

"Eh, I don't think there was that much in there to worry with, anyway." Colorado was a little less so. "At least his skull's pretty thick."

"Still, I've set off bombs that didn't put a tank in the air so fast." Kent mimed the trajectory of the Scorpion's front end with his hand, bringing it back to his open palm with a smack that made Utah flinch under Dr Jay's examination. "Well, they can't all be winners," Kentucky defended his skills from Jersey's silent look.

Utah's roommate stood just behind Kent, only his comparative lack of height and differently-shaped helmet assuring Utah that the second green figure wasn't a product of double, partially inverted-colour vision. "Jesus, kid," Georgia choked incredulously. Utah thought about correcting his pronunciation, but it seemed too much effort to line up his thoughts with his mouth. "I do have a tire jack."

"I know the feeling," Florida said in sympathy to the bomb-maker's shrug, then knelt in to get a better view of their patient. "Hey! Look who's back at 'em! You feeling okay there, champ?"

"Maine obviously won," 'Rado grumbled mutinously, but Jersey put a hand to her shoulder.

"Maybe we ought to give him a little space, Florida," the redhead in orange suggested, trying to calm a fretful West with a look from across the circle. Virginia patted her younger sister on the back, eyebrows raised as she silently watched Utah struggle back to consciousness.

"Yeah, it'd be nice if all the expert killers could back up and let me do my job." Dr. Jay made for a very angry snowflake. "Damn stupid rookie…" he muttered under his breath.

"You are lucky you were wearing your helmet." Carolina was as crisply brusque as if she were dressing him down in the debriefing room instead of standing in front of Utah as he laid flat on the floor of the motor pool. "I don't care how strong you are; if you'd managed to cost us a team member out of sheer stupid rivalry, I would find a way to hurt you beyond the grave, if necessary."

"She'd do it. Don't ask me how, but she would," York stage-whispered from her side, earning the brunet an elbow in the solar plexus. Cal just nodded fiercely in agreement from behind them.

"Still, if we do need stuff taken down, I guess Plan 'Throw Maine at It' can be amended to Plan 'Throw Maine and Utah at It Until It Stops Moving,'" Kentucky decided. "Which should cut the time required by half, at least."

"As long as they are aimed in the proper direction," Alaska drawled.

Dr. Jay snapped his fingers in front of Utah's face. "Hey, dumb newbie. I need you to focus for a second. You still in there?"

"I think so," Utah replied, his tongue suddenly as slow and heavy as the tank.

"I need your codename and designation," the doctor told him.

"And then name all seven dwarfs," Nev added from the back.

"Doc, Dopey, Grumpy, Happy, Sneezy, Bashful, - no, wait, Agent Utah, Private First Class, Foxtrot-19…" he didn't realize he'd been vaguely half-gesturing at the other Freelancers as he went through the list, but a couple of them seemed amused as he went through, " - Oh yeah, and Sleepy. That'd be me right now," he finished with a yawn.

"Stay awake until I can get you to the med bay, Dopey," Dr. Jay insisted, working a hand under his shoulder. "Little help here, Maine?"

The bald man nodded, then lifted Utah to his feet, punching the younger Freelancer in the shoulder to keep him awake, with West, North, Nev, and Florida following after them that Utah could tell, pretty much all the agents in the motor pool and watching their exit. "Not bad, kid," Maine told him, flowery praise indeed.

Utah could live with that.

* * *

**The Director**

* * *

"I told you these things have a way of working themselves out," said the paler figure watching from the far end of the lot, hands folded behind his back and eyes hidden behind thick, shining lenses. "We simply need to insure that the right people are in the right place."

The Counselor didn't look up from his data pad.


End file.
